Sick Fic
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Sick Fics are my guiltiest pleasure. I've read many, so if you've written one, you've inspired me. This is my take on how I think Sherlock would react to a poor poorly John. Characters are not mine. Have fun.
1. Norovirus 1

Sherlock looked out onto the street. It was calm and peaceful and quiet. It always was at this time of night. He picked up his bow and began to play.

He wasn't completely sure how long he'd been playing when he heard John's bedroom door open, and the sound of John himself hurrying downstairs. A quick glance at the clock told him that it was just after two in the morning. He had clearly been playing too long and too loud and he braced himself for John's (quite justified) tirade.

John came into view.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I'm going to st…"

John hurried past, waving him away.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but as John slammed the bathroom door and started to loudly vomit, the reason for this unusual rudeness became clear.

Sherlock wondered what he should do, but then he decided that as John was already awake, there was no harm in him continuing to practise, and there was that particularly tricky phrase that he wanted to conquer.

Five minutes later John emerged a shaken man. He filled himself a glass of water, and sat down on his armchair and looked at Sherlock who had paused in his playing.

"Well that was fun."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's all in your mind, John. You need to learn to control your body's baser functions."

"It's not all in the mind. It's a virus, and it's in the gut."

"And this tiny, microscopic virus is holding your body to ransom. I'm telling you, you can conquer it."

"Good. Thanks for the advice." John sipped at his water.

Sherlock looked at him sympathetically.

"Shall I tell you the story of the first case on which I worked with Lestrade?"

"Why?"

"To help take your mind of the virus that's compelling you to vomit."

"So, you reckon that you can be more irritating than the virus that's currently irritating my digestive system."

"If you want to put it that way, yes. Though I'd suggest that I can inspire your mind to such an extent that your brain functionality is entirely devoted to the task, thus it won't be able to make you sick."

"Well, the virus has a head-start, so give me a tick." He headed back to the bathroom and Sherlock was forced to entertain himself for a few more minutes.

John returned and sat back down. He hugged the Union Flag cushion to himself and sniffed.

"OK. Go on then. Distract me."

"Are you sure you're ready?"

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"OK. Wait – is there a chance I'll catch this virus?"

"Almost certainly seeing as you ate half my dinner from my plate with my fork this evening. Oh hell, hang on a minute…" John didn't move other than to take a few deep breaths and after a minute he started to look less green. "OK. Sorry. Besides, if you do catch it, surely you'll just conquer it with the power of your mind."

"Quite right. I just want to know whether I'll need to reserve brain capacity for that task."

"Well, if you're going to get it, you're going to get it."

"Fine, I won't get it then. My mind is above such things. OK, then, please sit back and relax, and give me your full attention."

John sat back and closed his eyes.

"Right," Sherlock said. "It was a dark and stormy night…"

John burst into laughter. "It was what?"

"It was a dark and stormy night!"

"What, really?"

"OK, it was mid-afternoon it was that sort of drizzly stuff that's not quite rain and not quite not, but I was doing that thing that you do."

"What thing that I do? Blatantly lying?"

"I was giving the story colour."

"You think I do that? Thank you!"

"I'm not saying I approve of it. It's just that your brain clearly requires it to be able to engage."

"The 'dark and stormy night' thing's a cliché. It's almost as bad as 'a shot rang out'. I don't do that."

"At least I can spell."

"I might be able to projectile vomit over you if you give me a half a minute."

"Fine, I'll start again. It was a sort of drizzly afternoon, six years ago in June."

"Is this a poem?"

"If you want the whole thing in iambic pentameter, I'm sure I could arrange that."

"Sorry. I'll be quiet. Wait, no I won't…" he pegged it back to the bathroom. When he returned he was shivering slightly and he grabbed the blanket from the back of his chair and wrapped himself in it. He looked forlornly at Sherlock.

"You're not cold. It's just your mind telling you that you're cold." Sherlock told him.

John uttered a curse that came one hundred percent from his heart and not at all from his mind.

"Mrs Hudson doesn't like that kind of language."

"Mrs Hudson isn't here. Look, if you're going to talk, talk. I'm just going to sit here and whimper slightly." He half turned so he was half curled up on his chair.

"OK. It was a cool afternoon in June and I was I received a phone call from one Detective Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. The work of Lestrade was known to me as I'd been watching him with interest for some time. It was true that his work was rough and regularly lacked anything that might be considered original thought, but I felt that he showed potential. He wasn't quite as much of a clot as some of the others of his profession and status, and I had taken the time to observe him and where necessary, encourage him to do better."

"I'll bet you did."

"I thought you'd gone to sleep."

"I hadn't. So you had stalked Lestrade and regularly told him what he was doing wrong."

"That's not what I said."

"Yes it is."

"Fine. You're clearly too weak to think clearly."

"Mm."

"Anyhow, I had contacted Lestrade with various pieces of information as I saw fit and suddenly out of the blue, he called me and asked me to go and meet him on Ridgewood Allotments. Do you know the allotments in question?"

"If I say no, will you describe them to me in great detail?"

"Yes, of course I will!"

"Then yes, I know them."

"Well I met Lestrade at the lower end of the area, quite close to the ditch that runs along the bottom of it. You know the ditch?"

"Intimately."

"Good. He stood up to me squarely and he said 'I suppose you know why I've asked you here, Mr Holmes,' and I agreed that I knew why he had called me.

"'Good, well that makes things easier. Remember that body in the factory last week? The one that you mailed me about and told me that it was, without a shadow of a doubt, a suicide?'

"I affirmed that I did.

"'Well that suicide's gone and killed another person.'

"You can imagine how shocked I was, John! A serial suicide! Such a thing was unheard of and of course, it was impossible! Are you still awake?"

"Mm. Serial suicide, ten a penny, boring stuff."

"I see delirium is setting in."

"Funny. So please do tell me how you proved it was murder."

"Well, Lestrade led me down to the ditch where I observed a body, lying face-down at the bottom of it. The weather had been unseasonably damp for several days, and there was about a foot of dirty water at the bottom of it. I could tell from the amount of bloating, not to mention the amount of interest that the local wildlife had taken in the corpse, that it had been there approx… where are you going! Assert your control, John! You're an army doctor, you are not as squeamish as… oh never mind, you go ahead an puke your guts up then, see if I care!"

Sherlock went back to his violin for a while, playing a dark, melancholy tune in a sulky fashion.

After ten minutes, he considered sending a search party in after John. He abandoned the idea when he decided he wouldn't like to enter the bathroom himself, and he wasn't sure that Mrs Hudson would be too sympathetic if she was woken in the early hours of the morning because a nearly-forty-year-old-man had a virus.

Of course she would have masses of sympathy for John, but it wasn't so much John he was worried about.

Fortunately, John emerged a few minutes later. He staggered across the room, grabbed the blanket as he passed it, and fell onto the sofa where he lay shivering and sniffing.

"I think I'm going to die!" he moaned.

"Oh undoubtedly. Most people do at some point or other, but I think you're unlikely to expire tonight."

"Thanks."

"Would you like some more water?"

"Yes please."

"Well, your glass is just on the table there. Put the kettle on while you're out there, could you. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the corpse… well I'll skip over further descriptions and just let you know that the corpse was a forty year old man, he'd only been there for two days, and he had the calling card of the man who had killed himself the week before."

"What was it then?"

"What was what?"

"The calling card?"

"It was a calling card. A business card. A card given out when you've visited someone, or have met them for the first time so that they have all of your details in a convenient form."

"Oh. Literally a calling card."

"Yes, why what did you think I meant?"

"Like a serial killers calling card. You know, where they leave like a red rose on every victim to show it was them that killed them."

"A red rose? Why would anyone ever do that? That's a stupid idea!"

"OK, whatever, just finish the story so I can go and die somewhere."

"You're not going to die, John! It's all in the mind, I tell you! You can control yourself, you _can_!"

"Fine whatever. Just carry on. Allotments, ditch, water, rotting corpse, calling card. Go ahead." After a few moments of silence he opened his eyes and looked over at Sherlock.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair looking fixedly at something across the room. His hand was over his mouth as if he was smelling something on his knuckles. He looked pale. Or as it was Sherlock, he looked pal_er_.

"Sherlock? Are you OK?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, yes I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He swallowed again. "I'm fine."

"You look kind of queasy. Would you like me to distract you by telling you about the first time I had to amputate someone's arm following an incident with a mine in the heat of…"

Sherlock dropped his violin onto the armchair opposite as he stormed towards the bathroom.

"It's all in your mind, Sherlock! Assert control over your baser functions!" John called after him with a very slightly smug smile.

He decided he felt much better now.

**Sorry, I was just in the mood for an hour of nonsense! Characters are not mine.**

**Pip xxx**


	2. Norovirus 2

**OK, I wasn't intending to continue this one, and I certainly don't have time to do so, but I forgot to set it to 'complete' and then people put it on alert, and then other people asked for it to continue, and I have been working very hard and I do deserve a break.**

**And what wonderful fun, thinking of all the different illnesses and injuries that our boys might get…**

* * *

Norovirus 2

Sherlock returned to the living room.

"What happened to mind over matter?" John asked him.

"I was surprised. I'm prepared now, and I can assure you it won't happen again."

"Jolly good."

"It would seem that this virus attacks its host very suddenly."

"Yes it does."

"But now I'm fine."

"Marvellous. Are you going to continue with your story?"

"What story? Oh, yes, the story. OK. Right." He took a deep breath. He took another deep breath.

"Are you OK?" John asked.

"Of course, I'm fi…" He shut his mouth very tightly.

"You might like to make your way to the bathroom."

"There's no need," Sherlock said hoarsely.

"Oh, this isn't going to end well."

"What do you me…" Sherlock shut his mouth again, swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, seriously, if you're going to spew, go to the bathroom."

"I'm not! I'm completely in con…" He shut both his mouth and his eyes. He took a few more deep breaths, and then he opened his eyes and smiled. "See. I'm completely fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. It's like I told you, you just have…"He closed his mouth again, but opened it a second later to spray a glorious fountain of sick over the floor.

John watched him, calmly.

Sherlock coughed slightly and shuddered.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I've just been sick on the floor."

"Yes, I observed. As I watched, I thought about how much better it would have been if you had gone to bathroom in advance."

"John?" Sherlock coughed quietly again.

"Yes?"

"There's sick on the floor."

"Yes."

"Someone has to clean it up now."

"Yes. You do."

"But I'm not well!"

"And I'm not well either, and it's your sick."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"_Please_, John."

John looked over at him. He was sitting with his legs drawn up onto the chair. He looked pale, slightly clammy, upset and stupidly young. John sighed.

"I'm really not impressed with you, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry. I promise I won't do it again."

"Yeah."

John heaved himself up from the sofa and walked slowly through to the kitchen.

He ran the dishcloth under the hot tap and went back into the living room where he made a half-hearted attempt to clean up after Sherlock. Shivering and sniffing he took the dishcloth back into the kitchen where he threw it into the bin. He washed his hands, filled a glass with water and took it through to Sherlock.

"Drink that." he handed the water to Sherlock, and marched back to the bathroom where he spent a few minutes vomiting in the only really acceptable place for such an activity.

On his return, he pulled a plastic bucket out from the cupboard under the sink, and he handed it to Sherlock before lying down on the sofa under the blanket again.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked him.

"It's a bucket, Genius."

"What's it for?"

"It's for catching the vomit of anyone who doesn't feel able to make it to the bathroom."

"Well, have it back. I won't need it. I'm perfectly calm and well now."

"Keep the bucket, because I'm not cleaning up after you again."

"You didn't do a very good job that time."

John told Sherlock what he should go and do with himself.

"There's no need to be like that."

"Sherlock, you're not a child, I don't have to look after you, you can take care of yourself. If you were living alone you would have to just deal with this sort of stuff."

"Arguably, if I was living alone, I wouldn't have been exposed to your germs and wouldn't be ill anyway."

"You might have got it first and have given it to me."

"No, you were sick first."

"It doesn't work like that. Clearly one or both of us was exposed to something at some point and I felt the effects first, that's all. If you'd have caught it from me, you wouldn't be hurling now, because the virus would still be gestating in your…" John closed his eyes.

"Do you need the bucket?"

"No, because I'm grown up enough to…" He got up and sped towards the bathroom.

He returned a few minutes later, stopping to get some more water for himself. He went back to the sofa. Sherlock was lying on it, under the blanket.

"I thought I should lie down," he said.

"Great." John sat down on Sherlock armchair and covered his face with his hands. He mastered himself and he sipped at his water. "Well it can't possibly go on much longer. There's literally nothing left in me to throw up."

"Well that's good then."

"Yeah." He put his feet up and closed his eyes.

"Should I continue with my story?"

"I don't care."

"It might help."

"It won't help me."

"Well like I keep telling you, that's because you let your body control you, rather than doing what I do."

"What? Be an idiot and throw up all over the living room?"

"That's an exaggeration. Besides, I feel much better now."

"Just my luck, catch a bug that cripples me but is a minor inconvenience for you."

"It's because my mind is firmer and better trained than yours, John. You keep doing stupid, wasteful things like eating and drinking and having sex…" He went quiet again.

"Mind not up to the task there then, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine. I'm going to continue with my story."

"Excellent. Good. Marvellous."

"OK." Sherlock cleared his throat again. "OK, so we were on the allotment looking at the body which was…" He closed his eyes to centre himself. "I'm not going to describe the body any more. Is that OK?"

"Yeah that's fine. I'm not intending to listen any more."

"Then why am I telling this story?"

"Beats me."

"OK." He took a deep breath. "OK, Lestrade said something about something, but I can't remember what, and then he introduced me to Sergeant Donovan. Oh, God!"

"Sherlock, go to the bathroom! I can't believe I have to tell you this!"

"I'm fine! Just give me a second." He breathed deeply a few times. He whimpered quietly.

"Are you whimpering?"

"No."

"It sounded like you were." John shut his eyes again.

"I'm not. Right, Sally, er, did or said something. She then did something else, and then Anderson looked shit…"

"That's a bit harsh…" John started. The sound of retching filled the room. "Oh. Please tell me you at least got it in the bucket."

"I got it in the bucket," Sherlock said while spitting.

"That's revolting, Sherlock."

"Here's something interesting," Sherlock said brightly.

"If there's anything interesting about your vomit, I don't want to know about it."

"Really? You wouldn't even want to know if I was vomiting blood?"

John's eyes snapped open and he frowned. "You're vomiting blood?"

"No, I was just saying, I thought there might be something that you, as a doctor, might find interesting about vomit."

"Oh." John shut his eyes again.

"No, what is interesting is this; the thought of Anderson is apparently about twice as nauseating as that of Donovan."

"Oh."

"What do I do with this now?"

"With what?"

"With the bucket that now has my sick in it."

"Take it to the bathroom, empty it, and then wash it out."

"John, could you…"

"No I bloody couldn't! You are a grown man! Shape up and start acting like one!"

"Fine! Fine I'll do it myself."

He hauled himself up and headed to the bathroom. John heard the sound of running water, followed by the sound of further vomiting.

Sherlock emerged, five minutes later looking somewhat the worse for wear. He stumbled back into the living room and stopped suddenly, glaring at John.

"You stole the sofa!"

"I thought I should lie down."

"That's evil that is! That's the most unfair, selfish, evil act I've ever seen!"

"Deal with it. I'm just going to lie here, very calmly, until I die."

"You're not going to die! I'm far iller than you are!"

"How do you work that out?"

"If I'm so ill I can't counter it with the power of my enormous brain, I must be very ill indeed!"

"If I'm so ill I don't care remotely about how ill you are… actually that tells me nothing because I regularly wish death upon you."

"That's not very nice." Sherlock sat down huffily on the armchair. "Were you going to make me a cup of tea?"

"No."

"Well you're rubbish."

"Fine. Whatever."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes. John rolled over to try to get a little bit of sleep.

"John?"

"Mm."

"I've just thought of a really interesting experiment."

"Mm."

"It's this. You describe more things to me, and I'll see which one makes me vomit."

"What?"

"So then I'll know, which are the more nauseating images."

"Why, in the name of all that is good and holy, would you want to run such an experiment?"

"Just for information's sake."

"Well it's a ridiculous idea. I'm going to bed."

"Fine. You're right anyway. I think I've got it completely under control now anyway."

"Really?" John asked with a snigger.

"Really."

"Yeah, you're right. I think you're all better now."

"Indeed."

"I'm sure the thought of both Donovan and Anderson…"

"Christ!"

"_Together._ In the kitchen…"

"I was wrong, please stop now."

"They might even be naked. And entwined… And there you go."

John smiled as he stood up and left Sherlock to his suffering.


	3. Earache

Earache.

John looked up from his computer as Sherlock came into the room and sat down heavily on the sofa.

"OK, I've found three different… what's up with you?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

Lestrade came in too. "He fainted in the house. I thought it was just blood sugar but I gave him a flapjack and he's still doing this weird shaking thing."

Sherlock was indeed quivering to himself. "I'm fine," he muttered.

"Yeah, he's been saying that a lot. I thought I'd better bring him back here."

"Why would I want him?" John asked.

"I don't know. I've never really known, but you're a doctor and you're here and you won't move out, so he's your problem."

"Er, no he's not!"

"Did you want me to take him to hospital? Because I really haven't got the time…"

John looked at Sherlock. He was red-eyed, pale and sweating. "I'm fine," he mumbled.

"No, don't worry," John said to Lestrade. "I think it's just dehydration. You go off and do whatever."

"All right. See you later."

Sherlock and John both watched him leave. They waited for the bang of the front door as it closed behind him.

"OK," John said, "Where does it hurt?"

"I'm just dehydrated, you said."

"Yeah, and I can tell the difference between mild dehydration and the start of shock. You, my friend, have an infection somewhere. Now, are you going to tell me where?"

"'snot an infection."

"It is an infection. Or possibly a virus, but I'm going with infection because you're clearly in pain acute pain somewhere."

"I'm fine! I don't get infections. Besides, you're a rubbish doctor, you haven't even taken my temperature!"

"I don't need to! Now, are you going to tell me where it hurts, or am I going to have to probe you until I find it? Because trust me, neither one of us wants that to happen!"

Sherlock looked at him. He tried to hold it together for a second longer, but his resolve failed and his face screwed up.

"It's my ear! It bloody hurts, John!" he wailed.

"An earache. Fine, give me a tick and I'll have a look at it."

"It really, really _hurts!_"

"Yes, earaches do." He looked in his bag and he found his light. "OK, hold still."

"It _hurts_!"

"Yes, hold still. No, Sherlock, still! Stay still! I'm not going to hurt you!"

"Owwwww! It _hurts_."

"Yes. You have an infection in your inner ear. Let me check the other one."

"That one doesn't hurt."

"Nope. You're fine."

"No I'm not! _It hurts_!"

"OK, settle down. And take your coat off too. Why the hell are you wearing a long woollen coat in August? Are you insane?"

"I was cold and it was hurting!"

"Well take it off now, you're cooking yourself." He went through to the kitchen to get a pint of water and various pills for Sherlock.

"What are they?" Sherlock asked.

"Ibuprofen and paracetamol."

"That won't work. I have more pain than that!"

"I don't care about the pain, I care about the fever. Now take them, and drink that water. All of it." He stood with his arms folded as Sherlock obeyed him.

"Right, good," John said as Sherlock put the glass on the table. He nodded to himself and went back to the computer.

"Right, I've found three different hotels that have both red walls and…"

"Wait! Is that it?"

"Is what it?"

"That's it? I'm dying here, and you give me paracetamol and tell me about bloody hotel rooms!"

"You're not dying. You have an ear infection."

"So do something about it!"

"I did! I gave you painkillers, water, and I told you to take your coat off."

"That's not going to work!"

"Sherlock, just…"

"It feels like someone's buried an icepick in my head!"

"It's an infection! You'll probably fight it off all by yourself and you won't have damaged your immune system with antibiotics that you probably don't need."

"I do need them! It really, _really _hurts! The pills aren't touching it!"

"Well no, you took them less than ten minutes ago. Give them a chance."

"But it _hurts!_"

"Calm down. Why don't you get changed into your pyjamas and go to bed for a bit?"

"Because it _hurts!_ Why can't I have antibiotics? They'd work wouldn't they?"

"Because I want to see if you can fight it off without them. If you can, that's better."

"How long will it take?"

"I don't know. Maybe two or three weeks."

"_Two or three weeks?"_

"You might want to stop whining like that. It's probably not helping the pain."

Sherlock slumped down on the sofa and moaned softly. He was still for maybe a whole minute.

"I have an idea," he said.

"And what's that."

"Shoot the bacteria dead with your gun. That won't damage my precious immune system."

"You want me to shoot you in the ear?"

"Yes."

"To kill the bacteria that's causing the infection?"

"Yes."

"And you can't see any flaws in that plan?"

"It might kill me I suppose, but I don't care. It _hurts._"

John closed his computer and looked over at Sherlock for a moment. He appeared to be trying to bury his head down the side of the sofa.

"OK, stop it. Let me have another look."

He took his light out and had another look in Sherlock's ear. He thought about how dark the red was in Sherlock's ear, and how much his eardrum was bulging. He took Sherlock's temperature with the back of his hand and registered the hotness. Finally he considered how likely it was that Sherlock would get through the next few weeks with this level of 'pathetic', without John killing him.

"OK, fine. I'll go and get you some amoxicillin."

"Will that make it all stop hurting?"

"Yes. It'll take a few days, and you'll have to take them _all_ even if you get an upset tummy, but they'll make it stop hurting."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said, settling down and shutting his eyes.

"While I'm out at the chemist, you get into your pyjamas and go to bed. And drink more water."

"OK. Fine."

John grabbed his jacket and left the flat. He came back a moment later to remove the ammunition clip, and the preloaded bullet from his gun. He put them in his pocket and left again. He came back a moment later and removed the rest of the painkillers from the kitchen cupboard.

"I'll be twenty minutes!" he called to Sherlock. "Don't do anything silly while I'm out!"


	4. Broken Leg

Broken Leg.

Sherlock stomped his way up the stairs at Baker Street, scowling. He was carrying a Tesco bag full of shopping, which explained some of the scowl, and he was being trailed by Mycroft which explained the rest of it.

He walked into the front room and glanced at John who was asleep on the sofa, tucked neatly under a duvet. He nodded, satisfied, and went through to the kitchen.

"I'd very much like a coffee!" Mycroft called to him.

"Oh, don't wake up…" Sherlock started, but John had already started stirring.

"Oh, hello, My… My… Mine… um." He frowned and screwed up his face. "Umbrella man. Oh, Slock," he smiled as Sherlock came into view. "Your brother's here."

"Yes, I'd noticed. Go back to sleep."

"OK." John obediently closed his eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" Mycroft asked, following Sherlock into the kitchen.

"He has a weak and inefficient mind." There was a silence and Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft. "Oh, you meant now. He's broken his leg."

"How did he break his leg?"

"Don't you already know?"

"He jumped off a building, following you."

"It wasn't my fault. He landed badly."

"I didn't say it was your fault."

"Good. Because it wasn't. I didn't ask him to jump off a building."

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting you did."

"Good. What do you want?"

"Coffee. Black, two sugars. Thank you."

Sherlock snarled as he made the coffee. "What do you want here? Now? With me?"

"I'm just carrying out my brotherly duty of checking that you're well and happy."

"I'm not happy. I will be when you leave, ergo, you should leave."

"I have a little job that I think might interest you."

"I'm not interested." He walked through to the living room, sat down on his armchair and flicked the television on. He turned the volume down and glanced over at John who had done nothing more than writhe before falling asleep again.

Mycroft came to sit down with him. He smiled at Sherlock who snarled at him.

"I can't work today, Mycroft, clearly I'm looking after John."

"And you're doing an excellent job. Fortunately, this task will be largely deskwork."

"Then you do it. You have a desk."

"Ah-ha, no, this one isn't for me."

"Well it's not for me either!"

John woke up. "Oh, hello… Mycrumb. Shlock, your brother's here."

"Yes I know. Go back to sleep."

"Your brother. The one you don't like. The one with the nose."

"Go to sleep, John."

"The one with the noooooooose. He's got feet too. Big ones. You don't think I notice these things but I do. Big feet and a huge noooooose. That's a good word. Nooooooose."

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock tried hard not to grin but he failed. "Go to sleep, John."

"Why is he so sleepy?" Mycroft asked.

"He's on quite strong pain medication."

"Ssssss a huge nose! Shlock's nose is little. He has big feet though. And very, very long… toes."

He sighed and shut his eyes.

"Maybe he needs more medication," Mycroft suggested.

"No, I'd better not."

"How restrained of you."

"Mm. Were you leaving now?"

"No."

"What would it take to have you evicted?"

"I think you're just grumpy because you're feeling guilty."

"I'm not feeling guilty. John, using his own free will, jumped off a building. I'm not responsible for that!"

"Really?"

"Really!"

"Then why are you dedicating yourself to nursing him?"

"Because I'm… nice!"

"Nice?"

"Yes, nice!"

"You know what's a good word to say?" John asked them. "Tumbleweed. Tummmmbleweed. Tum. Bull. Weed. Great word that."

"Yes, good," Sherlock said.

"You know what I wonder?" John asked the world in general. "Which of you two Holmeseses has the biggest…" He paused. "How long has that skull been there?"

"What skull?" Sherlock asked.

"The one there. The one that's a cow."

"Since you moved in, John. Why don't you have a little nap now?"

"Yessssss."

Sherlock held his breath for a moment and then sighed with relief when John started snoring. He looked at Mycroft who was frowning.

"You should feel free to leave," Sherlock told him. "Any time you like."

"Brains!" John yelled. "Which of you has the biggest… brain. It's quite hard to tell 'cos you're both pretty stupid." He shut his eyes and snored again.

Mycroft bristled. "I can't understand why he isn't at the hospital!"

"He's not that bad, it's just he's having an extreme reaction to the morphine."

"He's on morphine?"

"Yes! Did you know it comes in patches now?"

"Morphine patches?"

"Yes! They're very easy to use!"

"Sherlock, you haven't been experimenting with John's medication have you?"

"It was for purely practical reasons."

"Sherlock!"

"It's none of your business, Myrcoft!"

"Sherlock! You know how it upsets Mummy when you…"

John woke up. "Oh, hello, Mycroft! Sherlock it's…" His face screwed up into a frown. "I think I said that. Did I say that?"

"You did. Sleep, John."

"No, I'm not tired." He closed his eyes and snored gently.

"I haven't tried John's morphine!" Sherlock hissed at Mycroft.

"Are you sure?"

"Am I…? Yes I'm sure! Of course I'm bloody sure! I know exactly what drugs are coursing through my bloodstream at any given time, and regardless of what you think, I'm not selfish enough to take any of John's pain medication!"

"OK. Fine."

"Hello, Mycroft. You've got a very big… nooooose," John said.

"Yes I do, John. Thank you for bringing it to my attention."

"Welcome. I'm hungry. Or do I mean thirsty? Or do I mean sick. Oh, yes. Bit sick."

"Oh god…" Sherlock muttered, watching him closely.

"Or… I need a wee."

"Oh marvellous."

"No… I think I'm OK."

"Why isn't he in hospital, Sherlock? Why isn't he being cared for by someone who's vaguely capable of doing so?"

"I was bored when he was in hospital."

"So you brought him back here. Well, that's remarkably selfless of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock snarled again. "I'm taking care of him very well, thank you."

"Wait, something occurs to me Sherlock. You said you'd experimented with the morphine, but not on you."

"Yes."

"I can't help but notice the complete lack of lab-rats in your flat."

"Yes. What of it?"

"Sherlock, have you overdosed John?"

"No! Of course not! I'm well within acceptable levels, but he seemed particularly irritable, so I topped him up a little bit."

"So you encouraged him to jump of a building…"

"I did not!"

"Then you ran away, rather than stay and wait for an ambulance…"

"I… didn't know you'd seen that! I was in pursuit of…"

"Then you removed him from the hospital where perfectly capable people were taking good care of him…"

"I was bored! _He_ was bored!"

"And then, when he was irritable, you overdosed him!"

"Not that much! I just gave him a little extra because he was clearly in pain!"

"What a very good friend you are, Sherlock. How much extra?"

"A couple of patches."

"A couple?"

"Yes! And really all I did was not remove the first one when I put the next one on! Twice."

"You trebled his medication?"

"It's perfectly safe and he was being very…"

John sat up, retched, and loudly threw up over his blanket. He lay back and coughed.

"I think I feel a bit sick."

Sherlock sulked in his chair.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "I think I'll leave you to it now. Good afternoon to you, Sherlock."


	5. hGC

**OK, so most of you will know that I'm basically talking nonsense when I come up with any medical stuff at all. I tend to try to stick with stuff I've experienced at some point, and occasionally try to back it up with a smidge of Google and Wikipedia. This one is… half and half. I'm relatively certain that there's no way that this would happen, but the concept was too funny to pass up.**

**(And yes, quite OOC, but again, it amused me.)**

* * *

hGC

"John? John!" John looked towards the door as he heard Sherlock running upstairs. "John!"

"What's up?" John asked, going to meet him.

"John! I was attacked!"

"What? What do you mean? You said this was just recon! He's a Harley Street doctor!"

"It was recon, but then it wasn't."

Sherlock was pale and shaking horribly, and John grew concerned.

"Come inside, tell me what happened." He pulled him into the kitchen and without even thinking about it he pushed Sherlock into a chair and started checking his head for wounds.

"I was stabbed with a needle!"

John stopped checking and went pale. "What? Shit. OK, let's take you to A&E for bloods and anti-virals."

"No! No, John it's fine, it was sterile and unused."

John breathed out. "Oh thank God!"

"Here, I brought it back for you. I don't understand what was in it." His voice broke slightly.

"Let me see!"

Sherlock fished it out of his pocket and handed it over with shaking hands. John looked at it and smiled with relief.

"It's just hGC, Sherlock. You're fine." Sherlock didn't return his smile. He still looked pale and wide-eyed. "Sherlock," John said, "It's hGC, it's a normally occurring hormone in humans. You're fine. You're going to be completely fine."

Sherlock nodded slightly, but he still didn't smile.

"What's up?" John asked. "Is there something else?"

"No. Just that." He blushed slightly and whispered, "It's a _ladies_ hormone!"

John didn't even try not to laugh. "Actually, Sherlock, no. It's made by the pituitary gland of both women _and_ men. It's true I wouldn't choose to give it to a man in this quantity, but it'll be out of your system in forty-eight hours. As murder weapons go, it's one of the least efficient I've seen."

"It was all he had to hand."

"Well that's a good thing."

"Yeah. OK."

Sherlock's bottom lip quivered slightly and there were suddenly tears falling.

"John I was so scared!" he squeaked.

This time John did try to control himself and he just about managed not to smile.

"It's OK, Sherlock," he said, rubbing his arm. "It's OK. It was a shock. You're bound to feel a bit…" he frowned. "tearful. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Thank you!" Sherlock said. He wiped his eyes and took his coat off.

John bustled around the kitchen as Sherlock sniffed and wept at the table.

"So," John said, "Did you find anything out about these murders?"

"Er…" Sherlock sniffed. "No. Just… the whole thing just seems too cruel!" He started crying again.

John took a cup of tea over and sat down with him.

"Sherlock? I wonder if you've been working too hard recently. I think you might need a rest." He frowned as he said it. Sherlock hadn't actually been working too hard recently at all. He'd been lethargic and complaining of boredom and John had pretty much jumped for joy when a new case came in.

"Maybe," Sherlock whispered. "I am really, really tired."

"Yeah."

John looked at the weepy, exhausted, drooping mess that was Sherlock. Realisation hit him in the face.

"Sherlock, you do know that you can't get pregnant from hGC, don't you? It's a hormone that's present in the pregnancy process, but it's not acting alone."

"I know that!" Sherlock snapped at him. "I'm not completely stupid you know! God, you're so oppressive!"

He got up and stamped into the front room. John followed him.

"Sorry. It's just you looked a bit…" He stopped as he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock was standing still and pale in the middle of the living room. Very pale. He his jaw was clamped shut and there was a muscle twitching just under his left ear. He swallowed.

John had long since learned the symptoms.

"Oh no you don't!" he said. He turned him around and pushed him towards the bathroom, shoved him inside, and lifted the toilet lid for him. "Any vomit goes in there!" He pointed in case he hadn't made himself clear.

"I'm not going to be…" Sherlock turned, knelt, and threw up copiously, fortunately into the toilet.

"OK," John said, sitting on the side of the bath. "This might be a slight side effect from the hGC, but you shouldn't worry about it. Really, the only function it has in pregnancy is to stimulate the production of progesterone in the ovaries, which won't happen to you, because you don't have ovaries."

"I know that!" Sherlock said. "I know… oh no…" He vomited again.

John looked away and pulled his duck face.

Ten minutes later Sherlock flushed and flopped down onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"Are you OK?" John asked him.

"I think I'm fine. I'm hungry. What's that smell?"

"Well, it's hard to keep that 'fresh bathroom smell' when someone's been throwing up in it."

"No, not that smell. The other smell."

"What smell?" John looked around the bathroom and all of the bottles of products were neatly arranged and had their lids tightly on, the work of someone who did 'neat' in very precise but very limited areas.

"I can smell… _everything._"

"Yeah, just to recap, Sherlock, you're not pregnant."

"I need food." He leapt up from the floor and headed to the kitchen.

John followed him to prevent too much carnage. Sherlock was taking everything out of the kitchen cupboards.

"We have no food!" he complained.

"We have lots of food. Calm down, and I'll make you some toast."

"I don't want toast!"

"Well what do you want? We have pasta, rice, potatoes… if you can just wait, I can make you something more substantial."

"I don't know what I want." He sipped at his cold tea. "God, what the hell did you make this tea out of?"

John looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "Teabags, water, milk…"

Sherlock took another mouthful and grimaced. "Are you sure the milk wasn't off?"

"Yes I'm sure!"

"Well it's not going to stay down." He headed back to the bathroom. It was a brief vomit before he returned to the kitchen. "Do we have any pineapple? I need pineapple. Or fish."

"Well we don't have any pineapple."

"Why not?"

"Well, I didn't think that one of us would develop sudden pregnancy cravings before the week was out."

"What about fish?"

"We have a can of pilchards in tomato sauce."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think it might have been here when we moved in."

"Is it in date?"

"Er, yes."

"Hand it over. Give me the can, a can-opener, and a fork."

"Do you want a plate."

"No time. Gimme."

John watched as Sherlock deftly opened the can, a skill John had never witnessed before, and started shovelling forkfuls of fish into his mouth.

"You need to take the bones out, Sherlock!"

"Why?" He sucked a spine into his mouth and John shuddered.

"I think I'm going to puke next," he muttered.

Sherlock finished the can and dropped his fork on the table, satisfied.

"Oh, I needed that. I feel much better now."

"Good."

Sherlock smiled a small smile and sighed. He stared into space and gently stroked his abdomen.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I know I keep saying this, but I'm not sure you've quite got it yet. You are not, not now, not ever, never will be, pregnant."

Sherlock stared at him, shocked. There were suddenly tears again.

"John! That's a really, really _horrible_ thing to say!"

"Sherlock!"

But Sherlock's distress was genuine. He sobbed for a moment while John wondered what to say. There really didn't seem anything quite appropriate.

"Sorry," Sherlock said as he sniffed. "Sorry. You must think I'm awful. And stupid. And such a waste of everything."

"No, no, no. Not at all."

"I am, you know. I'm just useless."

"No, Sherlock, no! You've just had a bit of a shock!"

"The fish was a bad idea."

"I thought it might be."

"No, maybe I'm fine. Is there more tea? I think I need a hot one."

"I'll make you more tea. Then I really think you should go to bed."

"Yes. I think that would be a good idea." He wandered through to his bedroom and John put the kettle on and rubbed his face.

Sherlock's phone rang and John fished it out of the coat that was hanging on the back of the kitchen chair.

"Lestrade?... Yeah, it sort of went a bit wrong…. Mm. Look, I think Sherlock will have to step out of this one for a bit. He's er… well, he's in something of a delicate condition at the moment…. Yeah, I'll look after him. He'll be fine in a bit…. Well, I think it usually takes about nine months. Bye now!"


	6. Pneumonia

Pneumonia

Sherlock woke up, but decided against opening his eyes. It was reasonable to say that he felt vile.

His right arm felt stiff and slightly cold and he could hear the quiet, rhythmic whirr of a drip feed machine. He could also feel the stiff plastic of an oxygen mask over his face. He was propped up slightly. He tried to piece together the events that had landed him in hospital, but he couldn't. He could remember having a cold, being out with John, bickering with him, and then nothing. He wondered if he'd been struck by some unsuspected criminal. He lay their enjoying his misery for a moment until he heard a low, soft snoring just below the sound of the drip machine.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself in his own bedroom. There was indeed a drip machine running into a cannula into his arm, and an oxygen tank fixed to the mask. An armchair was a third addition to his room, and John was dozing quietly in it with his feet up on Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, grinned, and breathed in sharply. Alas, the breath was too much for him and he found himself coughing and choking. He panicked slightly.

Fortunately, John was awake and alert quickly, and he lifted Sherlock to a sitting position, removed the oxygen mask and stuck a bowl on his lap. He held one arm across Sherlock's chest for support while patting him firmly on the back with the other.

Sherlock coughed a thin stream of green liquid into the bowl. The sight of it and the motion of the coughing made him wretch. Eventually he calmed down. He tried very hard not to breathe as deeply again.

"OK now?" John asked.

He nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."

John settled him back and took the bowl away. He wasn't away long and he returned with a glass of cold water with a straw. Sherlock sipped at it. When he'd finished John put the glass down and went to put the mask back, but Sherlock stopped him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Well," John replied, "you went and got pneumonia, didn't you." He rubbed his face for a moment, then smiled grimly. He looked slightly cross.

Sherlock frowned. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry. I'm sure you didn't get it deliberately." Another grim smile.

Sherlock got the distinct impression that on some level, John thought he had indeed got pneumonia deliberately.

"Why am I not in hospital?"

"Are you going to keep rabbiting, or are you going to let me put this mask back on you?"

"I don't want the mask."

John sighed and shrugged and turned the oxygen tank off. "I didn't think you'd want to go to hospital. Do you want to go to hospital? Because I'm sure I can drop you off if that's what you'd prefer."

"I don't want to go to hospital."

Sherlock started coughing again and John sat him upright and replaced the bowl. When that bought of coughing was over Sherlock sat back and wheezed.

"You OK?" John asked him.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well, other than the pneumonia you mean."

"I feel terrible!"

"Yep. Pneumonia, Sherlock. Not a walk in the park. Also, it would be helpful if you started saying 'no' if you're not fine, and restricting 'I'm fine' to times when you're actually fine."

"Why are you cross?"

"I'm not cross!" John snapped.

Sherlock wondered about this but he found his mind wandering. "I'm dizzy."

John put the oxygen mask back on him and went to clean the bowl again. He returned, dropped the bowl onto the bedside table, and sat down heavily. He sighed.

Sherlock gave him a look and pulled the mask away again.

"Where did all the kit come from?"

"I called in a favour from a friend."

"What friend?"

"Mycroft."

"Mycroft's not a friend! Oh hell!" he started coughing again. John went through the sitting up procedure again.

"OK?" John asked when he'd stopped coughing.

"I think I'm dying."

"Again, less hyperbole and more accuracy would be helpful."

John looked slightly more sympathetically at Sherlock now though. He replaced the mask.

"Do you want more water?"

Sherlock shook his head. He pulled the mask away again.

"What happened?"

"It's pneumonia. That's what happened."

Sherlock thought about this. "The last thing I remember was you being cross with me."

"I wasn't cross with you!"

"Yes you were. You said, and I quote 'It's just a cold, you big girl's blouse, get over it.'" He looked at John. "What happened after that?"

"What happened after that was that you sort of blacked out and went a little bit blue."

"Ah."

"In my defence, it's quite hard to tell how ill you are at any given time when you swing wildly between chasing someone across London with a broken foot and minor concussion, and weeping and wailing that you're going to die from a paper cut."

"Ah. I see."

"What? What do you see?"

"You're not cross with me. You're cross with you."

"No I'm not!"

"Because I'm really ill, and you got it wrong."

"Seriously, I'm happy to take you to the hospital any time you want to go."

"I'm perfectly happy here, thank you."

"Well that's good, isn't it."

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a while.

"So," Sherlock said, "Just how guilty are you feeling?"

"I'm not feeling at all guilty. Not even a little bit."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"So you've gone out of your way to get all of this kit to keep me here, just because you're a nice person?"

"Shut up."

"I'm sure you'd sit by the bedside of any one of your patients."

"I would, you're not special, shut up."

"Fine."

He started coughing again.

"Yes, obviously I'd be doing this for just anybody," John muttered while helping him up and giving him the bowl.

"This is the most disgustingly ill I've ever felt ever," Sherlock whined when he'd finished.

"Yeah. Well like I say, it's not a walk in the park. You can take some pain killers now though. And more antibiotics. I can inject you again or you can swallow a pill, which would you prefer?"

"I feel really sick."

"I know. It's probably just a side effect from the antibiotics. They're quite strong."

"And you want me to take more?"

"You have to take more, Sherlock, you're really ill."

"Yes, and you got it wrong."

"OK, stabbing you in the arm with a needle it is then."

"Wait! That's not fair! I'm really ill!"

"Oh settle down! I'm not going to hurt you!" John injected the antibiotic into Sherlock's cannula. "Do you want to try to swallow the pain pills?"

Sherlock grunted and nodded. John handed over pills and gave him water to drink.

"There's my brave little tiger!" John said, ruffling Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock swore in his general direction.

"Now, food. Mrs Hudson's made us about two litres of chicken soup. Do you want some of that?"

"No."

"I can make you some eggs?"

"No."

"Well, what then? You've got to eat something. I know you disagree with me on this, but it will help with the nausea."

Sherlock sighed. "If I have to eat something, I think I might be able to manage two Cheddars."

"We haven't got any Cheddars."

"You can run to the shop and get some. I'll wait here."

"Can't I make you some toast? I'll put cheese on it."

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head.

John sighed and checked his watch.

Sherlock looked at him with huge eyes and coughed, pitifully.

"OK, fine. I'll nip to the corner shop. Is there anything else you might need?" Sherlock shook his head. "Fine. Stay here and don't move."

Sherlock counted the seconds in his head and calculated that John must have sprinted to the shop, possibly jumped the queue, and sprinted back again.

John sat back down in the chair, trying very hard not to pant.

"Here. Cheddars." He handed the packet across.

"Thank you. Can I have a cup of tea?"

"Tea? Yes, certainly I can make you a tea."

"Thank you, John." He gave him a small, mournful smile.

John rolled his eyes and walked, panting, from the room.

He returned a few minutes later with two cups full of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits.

"Can I have one of them?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought that Cheddars were the only thing in the world that you could possibly eat."

"They were. Now I want what you've got."

"You're like a little child!"

"Please, John. I'm _really_ ill."

John handed him several biscuits and sat him up a bit higher to drink his tea. They ate in companionable silence for a while.

"Is there anything else you need?" John asked. "'Cos, I might go and sleep for a bit."

"Actually, I need the toilet."

"OK, bottle or bedpan?"

"Neither. You just have to help me get across the hallway."

"No, I don't, you can't get out of bed. Bottle or bed-pan?"

"Please, John!"

"You're not walking anywhere. You're really ill, remember."

Sherlock did the sad eyes and pitiful coughing again.

"Exactly," John said. "You can't get up. Now, bottle or bed-pan?"

Sherlock attempted to stare John down, but he was unsuccessful.

"Bottle," he muttered crossly and blushed.

"Fine. Good." John handed the urine-bottle over. "Now, do you need help?"

"NO!"

"OK then. Good. I'll leave the room for a minute. There's a bell there if you need anything."

"I won't need anything," he muttered, still blushing.

"OK." John left the room.

A minute later, Sherlock contemplated ringing the bell but decided against.

Five minutes later John called from the hall.

"Sherlock? Are you OK?"

Sherlock found he couldn't answer that. John's head popped around the door.

"Are you OK?"

Sherlock blushed.

"What is it?" John asked him. "Where's the bottle?"

Sherlock nodded in its general direction.

"What's the matter?" John asked with a frown. "Are you unable to pee?"

"No, that's not it."

"What then?"

"It's stuck."

John frowned.

"No, not like that!" Sherlock said. "I got it down there OK, but now it's full, I can't work out how to…"

"Oh, OK." John headed towards him and Sherlock blushed again.

"No!"

"Sherlock, you can't leave it there. You can keep trying to move it by yourself, or I can help you."

Sherlock glared at him. "Fine. Help. No, wait!" He covered his face with both arms. "I'm ready now."

"OK." It took John less than three seconds to remove it and straighten Sherlock's blankets over him. "All done."

Sherlock didn't move his arms. John patted Sherlock's leg and took the bottle away.

He came back in with the empty bottle and put it aside. He nodded at Sherlock and sat down again.

"John."

"Yes?"

"If you ever mention that to anyone, ever, I will kill you. I won't warn you either, I'll just shoot you dead."

"A, you'd miss. B, why would I ever mention it to someone? It's a bottle of wee, it's hardly scintillating conversation."

"Fine."

"Right, why don't you lie nice and still for a while now. See if you can sleep for a bit."

Sherlock was still and quiet for precisely three minutes.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I'm bored."

"Good for you."

"No, I'm really bored. Can I get up and do something?"

"No."

"Can I have my computer please?"

"No. You need to be still and quiet."

"Can I have my phone?"

"OK."

John handed it to him. Sherlock looked at it for a second or two before putting it down.

"I can't be bothered."

"OK. Fine, then lie still."

"Can I play with your gun for a bit?"

"No!"

"But I'm bored."

"Deal with it."

"What happened to the guilt? I liked the guilt!"

"My sense of responsibility for you is rapidly diminishing."

"But I'm _bored._"

"Well what do you want me to do about it?"

"If you really cared about me, you'd entertain me."

"How?"

"I don't know. Read a book or dance a jig or something."

"Dance a jig?"

"Yes. Well, something like that."

"I think if I was to try to dance a jig, I'd probably go through the floor. Or out the window."

Sherlock grinned at the idea.

"I'm not one of life's dancers, Sherlock. Just so you know, if we're ever together and there's a dance-floor nearby, and the mood takes me, I'd advise you to duck and cover. I'm being serious."

Sherlock laughed for a while and John smiled at him. He stopped smiling as Sherlock started coughing again.

John sat him up and rubbed his back while he coughed and choked.

"OK?" John asked when he finally stopped.

Sherlock nodded, looking slightly grey,

"I'm fine," he whispered.

John picked up the bowl, and as he was heading away Sherlock gagged and threw up on the bed. John turned back to him and laughed to see the look of surprise on Sherlock's face.

"OK, so on that occasion, you actually meant 'no'."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Lie still for a bit."

John put the bowl down and quickly took the blanket off Sherlock's bed.

"Your t-shrit's a mess. Give me a second."

He detached the drip tube, stripped Sherlock's top from him, re-dressed him in a clean t-shirt, and reattached the drip in the space of about thirty seconds.

"Right, I'll get you a clean blanket."

"'K."

John left, returned and straightened Sherlock's bed.

"You OK now?"

"Yes."

"And do you mean yes this time?"

"Yes."

"Good. Right, I'm leaving a bowl well within your own reach."

"OK."

"Good. Maybe you should try and get some sleep now."

"Mm. John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for feeling guilty."

"It won't last. Goodnight now."


	7. Black and Blue

Black and Blue

Sherlock tapped away at his computer while John lay on the sofa watching the telly. There was a knocking at the door. Neither man moved. There was a second knock.

Sherlock frowned. "Are you going to get that?"

John didn't answer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed but he also got up to answer the door. He frowned on opening it.

"Lestrade? Why are you here? I told you I'd text when I've reached a conclusion."

"I'm not here for you, I'm here to see John."

"John? Why would you want to see John?"

"Sherlock? Really?"

Sherlock sighed and stood back to let him in and Lestrade headed up the stairs.

"Well, hopefully you'll get more out of him that I can." Sherlock muttered. "Apparently he's not talking to me."

"Sherlock, he's got a broken jaw! He's not talking to anyone!"

"Then why are you here?"

They got into the front room and stood at the end of the sofa, looking at John.

John looked terrible.

The lower part of his face was very swollen, and there was a large purple bruise over the left side of his jaw. His lower lip was swollen too and there was dark brown dried blood on it where it had been split. There was a lump on the right side of his forehead, beneath which his right eye was virtually swollen shut.

His left eye was bright and sharp though and he looked up at Lestrade. He smiled very, very carefully with the right side of his mouth.

"Jesus!" Lestrade said. "He really did a job of work on you, didn't he?"

John nodded slightly. He raised his two index fingers into the shape of a letter T.

"Thank you," Lestrade said. "I'd love one."

John looked pointedly at Sherlock.

"Oh! So I suppose that's my job now! Great!" He stomped into the kitchen.

Lestrade turned John's armchair to face him and sat down on it.

"We're going to charge him for assault, obviously, and GBH."

John made the 'OK' symbol.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, storming back in. "This is just a distraction! If we keep Brown in custody, we're far less likely to be able to use him to get at Sheenan!"

"Sherlock, he's in custody for assaulting John! He will be prosecuted for that and he will be given a lengthy stretch!"

"Of for heaven's sake!" Sherlock shouted. "So he knocked John's face about a bit! It's not like he was using it!"

"Sherlock!"

"The face is irrelevant, Lestrade! The case! The case is _everything_!"

"And I'm sure you're clever enough to solve it with Brown in custody."

Sherlock stamped about a bit in a strop.

"Well maybe John doesn't want to press charges!"

Lestrade sighed. "John, do you want to press charges."

John nodded firmly. Sherlock glared at him.

"Well, when you're ready," Lestrade said, "the medical record of your injuries would be helpful."

John held up his index finger. He carefully picked up a file from the coffee table and held it out to Lestrade, wincing.

"Don't move! I've got it!" Lestrade said. He sat back down and opened it and started to read. "He broke three of your ribs! Jesus, John!"

John shrugged.

"It's all extremely inconvenient!" Sherlock muttered and he went to make the tea.

"So, he's treating you kindly then!" Lestrade said.

John smiled involuntarily and then winced and whimpered a bit.

"Sorry, I shouldn't make you laugh."

John shook his head and leaned back and shut his eyes.

"Actually," Sherlock said, "I'm treating him _very_ well!" He handed a cup of tea to Lestrade. "I've cooked him every meal since he got out of hospital!"

"Isn't Mrs Hudson helping?"

"No. She says I have to do it. She says it's my fault which is clearly stupid!" He put a cup of tea down by John and stuck a straw in it.

"You're cooking? Real food?"

"Yes! He can only eat soup and I'm providing it regularly."

"Oh, good!" Lestrade looked at John. "Is he managing to heat it up OK?"

John shook his head.

"Cold soup? That's nice."

"It's not always cold!" Sherlock snapped.

"Ooh, o' iii i aaaa urrrr." John said.

"It wasn't that burnt!" Sherlock said. "And if you're going to complain you can damned well cook for yourself!" He stomped back to his computer.

"Ignore him," Lestrade said. "I think that some of this anger is born out of guilt."

John nodded.

"It is not!" Sherlock shouted. "I didn't beat him up, it wasn't my fault! I don't know why everybody's blaming me!"

Lestrade smirked and John smiled, then winced again.

"Do you need more pain meds?" Lestrade asked. "Have they given you enough?"

John nodded.

"He's being stupid," Sherlock said.

John rolled his good eye, and Lestrade frowned.

"Are you taking too many? John, isn't that a bit dangerous?"

John gave his half smile and shook his head.

"He's not taking nearly enough. The whole point of painkillers is that they kill your pain. His pain is still writhing around in its death throws but he won't take enough to finish the job!"

"Oh. Well that's sensible, Sherlock. That's the thing with being beaten up is that it does hurt a bit, and it will do so until it gets better. This is why John's attacker going to be charged and prosecuted. Beating someone up? It matters."

"You should add 'interfering with police investigations' to the charge sheet," Sherlock muttered. "If he hadn't beaten up John, John would still be around to help, and this whole thing would be going much quicker."

"I'll bear that in mind, thanks, Sherlock. Oh, hello Mrs Hudson!"

Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tray with more tea and a bowl of soup on it.

"Detective Lestrade! This is a terrible business, isn't it! The poor doctor's face!"

"His poor face?" Sherlock stropped. "Must I remind you that he was no oil painting before!"

He was ignored.

"I'll go and make you a cup of tea, shall I, Detective?" Mrs Hudson said.

"Thanks, but Sherlock already did."

"Yes, but it won't be very nice, will it!"

Sherlock tutted and sighed, noisily.

"And there's some lunch here for you, Doctor."

"So you're not forcing him to eat Sherlock's offerings then?"

"No, I'm not a cruel woman, Detective. And I'd prefer the Doctor didn't starve!"

Lestrade sniggered.

Sherlock slammed his computer shut and stood up.

"If anyone wants me, and I'm sure that no-one does, I'll be in my room!"

He stormed away and there was the sound of a slamming door.

Lestrade smiled at John.

"I'm sure it's just the guilt talking," Lestrade said. "He's not good with guilt."

John gave his half smile and shook his head again.

"Well, I'll leave you to your lunch. If you need anything, give me a call." He frowned. "Or text, or something. OK, I'll see you later."

He stood up and Mrs Hudson went downstairs to show him out.

John half-heartedly and painfully ate a few spoonfuls of soup and then got up and went to knock on Sherlock's door. He looked at him, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"It's not my fault," Sherlock said.

John nodded.

"You went after Brown of your own free will. It was something that you chose, for yourself, to do. I can't help it if you have such an overblown sense of responsibility for me that you didn't like him manhandling me. Nor can I help it that you aren't observant enough to know that I really didn't care what he did to me."

John looked at him and nodded slowly.

"But," Sherlock said, looking at him, "if it had have been my fault, _if_ it had, you should know that under those circumstances, I would be very, very sorry. And grateful."

John smiled with half of his face and nodded again. He nodded towards the living room and they went back out there again, John to try and eat a little more, and Sherlock to call hypotheses to him from across the room.


	8. Concussion

**I'm running out of ideas for this, which is a shame, because I'm taking such a sick pleasure in doing some truly horrible things to these poor men.**

**Pip xxx**

Concussion.

Sherlock struggled towards consciousness. Half way there, he started to regret this and tried to scurry back to unconsciousness again. Alas, he was past the point of no return and he could hear machines beeping and the general buzz of a hospital and his natural curiosity woke him up so he could listen. He could hear John talking and was relieved that he was there. He tried to make sense of the conversation.

"But seriously!" John said. "He had O'Leary sitting on the bench, and he put him in at 85 minutes!"

Someone replied. "He wanted him fresh, John, that was all!"

"Yeah, but there's 'fresh' and there's 'can't play more than five minutes of a game'! That's not fresh! That's being a big girls blouse about the whole thing!"

Football. He was lying in a bed, _clearly _dying, and John was talking to a mate about football. He huffed and opened his eyes in annoyance.

The light in the room almost blinded him and he instantly winced, swore and close them again.

"Ah-ha! Sleeping Beauty awakes!" John said in a tone that was far too light-hearted for the crisis. "Can you open your eyes again, Sherlock?"

"No." Sherlock whispered.

"I think you probably can."

"Light. Too hideous."

John sighed, turned the light off and drew the blinds in the private room Sherlock was in.

"OK, I've made the nasty light go away. Open your eyes."

Sherlock did so. He looked around. He could tell from the curtains that that he was in UCL, so he was well enough to be taken to the hospital of John's choosing, so the one that was closest to the house and had the best take-away food in easy reach.

John leaned over him and peered into his eyes. Sherlock tried to focus on him but gave up in a sea of pain and nausea.

"It hurts," he whined.

"Yes, you got hit around the head with an iron bar, Sherlock. That tends to stimulate the pain receptors a tiny bit."

"I don't feel well."

"Probably not. Just make sure you let someone know before you hurl, OK?"

Sherlock frowned. He sensed a distinct lack of anguish and upset from John, which surprised him as John was usually quite caring and he was clearly dying.

"Do you want to have a look?" John said.

Sherlock frowned again as a man he didn't know loomed into view and shone a light directly into his eyes.

"Ow! Stop it! Go away!"

"Oh, Sherlock, this is a friend of mine, Prateek. I was his mentor at Bart's."

"Why is he here? I'm not some kind of exhibit!"

"He's here because he's a doctor, and you're on his ward. Now be good – he's in charge of the medication."

"I _have_ a doctor," Sherlock growled.

"Really?" John replied. "Give me his name and I'll call him in."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Stop it," John said. "You're in a hospital, so you're in someone else's care! There's nothing I can do about… OK, up you come!" John helped Sherlock sit up so that he could vomit into a cardboard bowl.

"Oh, that reminds me," Prateek said. "Did you want food, John? The staff canteen's terrible, but there's a good Chinese across the road."

"I know it! Have you had their steamed dumplings?"

Sherlock retched.

"Oh they're brilliant! Sue eats them every night. Seriously, there's no deviation! It has to be dumplings followed by anything at all, but always the dumplings to start."

John laughed and threw the bowl away, replacing it with another.

"Do you want water, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sniffed and nodded and John held him steady so he could sip at some water.

"So how is Sue?" John asked. "Things going well?"

"Oh yes," Prateek said. He grinned. "I'm not supposed to see anything but I don't know when I'll see you again. She's ten weeks!"

John took the water back as Sherlock leaned forward and threw up some more.

"That's brilliant, Prateek! Congratulations!" John reached over Sherlock and shook Prateek's hand. "We must go out soon and properly celebrate."

"Excuse me!" Sherlock said, hoarsely.

"What's up?" John asked him.

"I'm being sick."

"Yes, it's a symptom of concussion. What of it?"

"You could be a little more engaged. I am in a hospital bed."

John sighed and rolled his eyes. He threw the bowl away and handed Sherlock the water again.

"OK? Better now?"

"Marginally."

"Good. Lie back now and rest a bit."

Sherlock obeyed and settled back like a swooning Victorian. He wiped a hand across his brow. John sat back down in the visitor's chair.

"Sorry, John, I got side-tracked," Prateek said. "Do you want to join us in the staff room for Chinese?"

"No, I'd better not," John said. Sherlock allowed himself a small, smug smile. "I've got a date tonight."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"You've got what!"

"A date. With Kerry. You know, the blond desk-sergeant at West Kensington nick. The one you said was unfaithful to her husband. Turns out you were right, by the way."

"You're going out?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"I'll leave you two alone, shall I?" Prateek said and he left, grinning.

"You are not going out with Kerry the trollop," Sherlock said.

"She's hardly a trollop!"

"She's a married woman, John!"

"So? Isn't that her business? She seems fun, he's away, I fail to see why you feel the need to moralise about it."

"So what will happen to me?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. You'll probably take some pain meds, throw up a bit, and with luck, sleep a bit too."

"I want to go home."

"You can't go home."

"I want to go home."

John sighed. "Sherlock, in all the time you've known me, how often have I taken you to hospital?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Twice. Now, three times."

"Right, and how often have I told you you really ought to be in a hospital while I've been patching you up at home?"

Sherlock just sniffed.

"I'd guess about twenty or thirty," John answered for him. "So given that, do you think that if there was any way I'd force you into hospital if you didn't need to be here."

Sherlock mumbled something that ended with the word 'date'.

"No, the date's irrelevant," John told him. "I didn't arrange it until I knew you'd be here overnight. If you'd have needed me at home, then I'd be there, but you're in hospital so you don't need me."

"I'll be alone then," Sherlock sniffed again.

"No, you won't be alone. There are a dozen staff working, they'll check on you regularly and if you need anything between times, you can just use the call button. It's better than having me asleep on another floor, honestly."

He shifted in his seat as two large teardrops ran down Sherlock's temples.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you'll be fine. Absolutely fine. I'll be back first thing in the morning, I promise."

Sherlock sniffed and gulped and wiped his face with his hand.

"I know. Sorry. Just being silly."

Two more tears fell and John bit his lip and shuffled his feet.

"Are you doing that thing where you make yourself cry?"

Sherlock bit his lip and swallowed again. "Sorry," he whispered. "Sorry, it's just, it hurts a bit. I'm OK now. Of course you should go out."

His chin dimpled and he turned his face away, not before two more tears had fallen.

"OK, look, don't worry about it," John said. "I didn't really want to go out with someone who's that disrespectful to her husband. I'll need to go and call her now though. Will you be OK for a minute?"

"It really is fine, John," Sherlock said.

"No, it's fine, I'll stay. I'll be back in a second." He ducked out of the room.

Sherlock wiped his eyes and grinned a small grin. And so a new game of 'exactly how far can I push John at this time' was started.


	9. Allergies

**So I mention that by brain is dull and stupid and lots of lovely people gave me lots of lovely ideas! I do so love it when other people do my job for me!**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and for this chapter, thanks specifically to Ahreader for the poison ivy (no, we don't have it here, but we do have a rather pathetic-in-comparison equivalent as detailed below), and for reminding about allergies. Some (but possibly not all) of the other suggestions made yesterday will also be tackled at some point, so thanks again to all of you.**

**Technically, it's John's turn for a malady, but I do think that Sherlock deserves them more than John, I gave him some anyway.**

**Pip xxx**

Allergies.

John followed Sherlock across the field.

"You know," he said, "this is exactly the sort of location I think of when I imagine a complicated murder, shrouded in mystery."

Sherlock smiled back at him. "That's because you have an overactive imagination."

"Well look at it! An isolated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere…"

"Isolated places are often in the middle of nowhere."

"… dark looming trees…"

"There are four of them. And they hardly 'loom'."

"… Wide, untended fields obscured by rising mist…"

"Yes, today it's misty. Tomorrow it might be sunny and you'd see this as an idyllic part of the countryside, good for picnics and hiking."

John grinned. "Personally, I think the murder got the location _and_ the weather spot on."

"I'll be sure to pass on your compliments."

John grinned again.

"I do think you'd be better served…" Sherlock started but stopped again, and looked down, shocked. "John, there's something attacking me!"

"What?"

"Ow! Ow! Pain! I'm being bitten or something! Ow!"

He started hopping and swiped at his lower leg.

"What the hell?" John asked. He looked around. "You've walked through stinging nettles, that's all. You must have got one up your trouser leg."

"It hurts! It ruddy hurts!"

"It's just stinging nettles, Sherlock!"

"It _really _hurts." He sat down an pulled up his trouser leg, and stared, pale faced at the offending nettle and the ensuing rash that had quickly spread all over his shin.

John looked at him. He signed and pulled the nettle off.

"There now, it's all gone!"

"Look at me, John! I'm disfigured!"

"It'll be gone in half an hour."

"It hurts _now!_"

John sighed and broke off another stem of nettle. He used his fingers to worked the sap out of the stem, and let it drip over Sherlock's leg.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock yelled. John worked the sap in with his fingers. "What the hell… wait. Hang on. It's going! The pain's going away!"

"Yes. Nettle sap cures nettle stings. You know, for children or people who can't cope with a teeny tiny bit of pain." He squirted some sap onto his own fingers where they'd been stung. "It's a neat little trick." He tossed the nettle away and put his hand out for Sherlock to take.

"You're like some kind of witch!" Sherlock said.

"Or, I'm a tiny bit knowledgeable about field first aid."

"Doctors shouldn't use things like nettle sap. You're a scientist, you should use proper medicine."

"Oh, would you like me to rub you with another nettle to take away the pain of the witchy medicine?"

"No." Sherlock took his hand and pulled himself up. "It just doesn't seem right, that's all. Right, let's get on."

He turned and headed to a gap in the field wall and climbed through it onto the narrow road. Across from him there was a large yard in front of the large farmhouse. There were a couple of older vehicles parked in the yard, a chicken coop with chickens over to one side, and a fair amount of weeds poking through cracks in the concrete. It looked as though it had seen better days.

There was also a hefty amount of police tape looking bright against the greyness of everything else, and a police car parked in the middle of it all.

Sherlock ducked under the police tape and John followed him. They nodded at the officer at the door and went inside.

The hallway was dark and gloomy.

"What's that smell?" John asked.

"Two people were murdered here three days ago, John."

"No, not that smell, the other one." He sneezed. "Can't sbell it any more. Dose is blocked." He sneezed again.

"What's wrong with..." Sherlock started. He was interrupted.

"Miaow."

The two men turned to look at a large, long-haired Persian cat, sitting half way up the staircase. It looked directly at John and licked its lips.

"Oh hell!" John muttered and sneezed again.

Sherlock gave him a handkerchief and a look.

"It's dot my fault!" John said. "I'll wait outside." He coughed for a while.

"I need you in here, John, so rise above it all!" He pulled him towards a doorway. "It's one tiny cat for heaven's…"

They got into the front room and Sherlock stopped talking. With his quick eye, he counted four policemen, two bodies and sixteen cats in the room.

John swore and started coughing. After a minute, Sherlock frowned at him and smacked him on the back a couple of times. John nodded, crept towards a chair, sat down on the air and coughed with a passion. Everybody stared at him. He finally finished with a huge sneeze.

"Sorry," he said.

"Are you allergic to cats?" Anderson asked.

John rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps you should wait out side, John," Lestrade said, looking at him in a concerned fashion.

"No! He can't!" Sherlock barked. "I need him here. Have you moved the bodies?"

John wheezed.

Lestrade looked at him sympathetically, but shook his head at Sherlock.

"No, we didn't move them, but we did have to move some of the cats away from them. They seemed a bit… hungry."

John sneezed twice and swore.

"Yes, they've altered some of the physical evidence, that's for sure," Sherlock said. "But we always knew that all cats are evil."

"Yeah, Sherlock, I really think John should wait outside."

"Why?"

"Sherlock, look at him."

Sherlock glanced at John. He was trying to keep his eyes wide open, but they were swollen and running. He was taking large gasps through his mouth and his lips were swollen and inflamed too. The sneezing and coughing seemed to have stopped, but John seemed to be concentrating intently on each laboured breath.

"Maybe we should try to squeeze some sap out of a cat, and rub it all over him," Sherlock suggested.

"What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Just a theory. John, if you must go outside, off you go. Try not to faint and disturb any evidence though."

John glared at him. "Thang you very buch." He heaved himself up and staggered off.

"Animal control people will be here soon. They'll clear them all out," Lestrade told Sherlock.

"Fine, whatever. Stand back, People, give me some light." His magnifying glass came out and he spent several minutes closely examining the corpses.

There was a light knock on the door and Sherlock looked up to see the officer from the door.

"Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but the wheezing man outside says there's something you might want to see in the chicken coop."

"In the chicken coop?"

"Yes sir."

Sherlock glanced across at Lestrade and nodded. They both stood up.

"Can I have a turn with the corpses now?" Anderson whined at them.

"Yes, fine!" Sherlock said. "I'm sure you'll find them illuminating."

He swooped out and Lestrade followed him outside. They crossed the yard to where John was looking into the chicken coop, still sniffing, wheezing and wiping his face. He was a bit less swollen though.

"Look in dere," he said, pointing. He stopped pointing to sneeze loudly and blow his nose again. The others looked.

"A shoe!" Sherlock said.

"Bless you," Lestrade replied.

Sherlock glared at him but John sniggered, then sneezed.

"Go and get it then," Sherlock said.

"Who are you talking to?" Lestrade asked.

"Anyone who's not me."

"I'm dot goin' in dere!" John told him.

"No, me neither," Lestrade said. "If you want the shoe, you can go and get it."

Sherlock looked at both of them but neither seemed likely to budge. He sighed, took his coat off and handed it to John, then opened the door and stepped into the… something he didn't want to define. It was slippery.

John closed the door behind him and he spun around.

"Don't want de chiggen's getting out!" he sniffed.

Sherlock turned back. There were five chickens in total. Mostly they were ignoring him, but there was one, looking at him curiously, between him and the shoe.

Sherlock sneezed.

The chicken really didn't care.

Sherlock sneezed again and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and cursed when he remembered he'd given it to John. He sneezed again.

"Sherlock, are you allergic to chickens?" Lestrade asked him.

"Do!" he said. "I'm dot!"

"Why didn't you say before going in?" John asked him.

"I didn't dow! I've dever been deer one that's got fedders!"

"Right. Good," Lestrade said. "Just go and get the shoe and come out again."

"OK." Sherlock coughed a bit and wiped his face on his sleeve, cursing himself as he did so.

He took a step forward and the chicken that had been staring at him rushed forward and flapped its wings. Sherlock yelped and leapt backwards against the door.

"Dey're nasty little sods, aren't dey!" he whimpered.

"Dey're just chiggens. You eat dem all the time!" John said.

"I prefer dem when dey're roasted." Sherlock coughed into his sleeve for a moment. "Right, I hab a blan."

"OK."

"Bass me dat broom." He pointed and John went to get it for him and handed it in through the door.

Sherlock squatted and first tried to brush the chicken away a bit. It was nonplussed and leaped over the broom to cluck at him. He swore and turned his attention to the shoe and he leant out to try to brush it towards him. It took some doing, but gradually he got the right technique and it slowly moved towards him. He picked it up and grinned.

"Dere!" Two chickens suddenly squawked at him and rushed at him flapping.

"Argh! No! Get me out! Get me out!" Sherlock flapped.

Lestrade and John both laughed as they pulled the door open and Sherlock dashed out, panting and coughing. He sneezed.

John sneezed too.

Sherlock sneezed louder.

"It's not a competition!" Lestrade said.

Sherlock looked at him and held out the shoe. "Deir son's dead doo. Der daughter in law did it. De son's dead to. Find him. She'll have messed ub at least once."

"Maybe we should squeeze the sab out of a chiggen and rub id on you." John said.

"You're not nearly as fuddy as you think you are," Sherlock told him. "Let's go back hobe. The countryside's var doo dangerous."

"Yeb."

They turned and coughing and clearing throats they set off toward along the road towards a train station.


	10. Laryngitis

**OK, I have a quandary. I wrote another chapter called 'Malnourished', and it is pretty much complete. It is, however, not exactly a barrel of laughs. It's a bit dark, angsty, angry, and a tiny bit fluffy at the end. Do you want it anyway? I'm happy to publish, and equally happy to leave this as a nonsense/funny-fic. I'm not sure I'd like it as a stand alone piece, so it's here or nowhere.**

**Anyhow, in the meantime, I haven't yet written a mute Sherlock! Thanks to Akisura12 for prompting it. **

Laryngitis

Sherlock marched into the police cordon at the park and nodded curtly at Lestrade.

"Good morning," Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded slightly again, coughed quietly and attempted to clear his throat.

Lestrade looked at him with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock stamped and turned around to look for John. John was having a conversation with a uniformed policewoman whom Sherlock vaguely recognised. John noticed him and hurried over.

"Morning, Lestrade," he said.

Sherlock sighed at him.

"Oh, yes," John said. "I'm supposed to tell you that I'm only here because he's got laryngitis, so I'm acting as his mouth piece."

"But you're always with him," Lestrade said.

Sherlock started scribbling furiously in his little notebook.

"I know," John said. "But on this occasion, he's suggesting that I'm only here as his mouth piece. Apparently I'd be allowed the day off if his vocal chords were working. It's a shame really, I'd quite like a day off."

Lestrade grinned and Sherlock ripped out a piece of paper and handed it to John.

John glanced at it.

"I'm not referring to myself in the third person, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and stamped his foot.

"Because it's creepy and weird!" John replied.

Sherlock scribbled something else and handed it over.

"I'm not saying that at all," John said, glancing at it. He crumpled it up and shoved it in his pocket. "Do you want to get on now, Dear, so that I can take you back home?"

Sherlock snarled and stomped away to look at the corpses. There were two of them. A lady in her late 60s and a Yorkshire Terrier that was considerably younger. Sherlock coughed slightly as he knelt down by them and sagged a bit, before noticing John looking at him and he rallied.

"Shouldn't he be in bed?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, that's exactly where he should be. The lost voice isn't a problem. In fact I'd go so far as to say in this case it's a positive delight! He's still got a major infection though, so has a fever, aching in the joints and limbs, and I've got him on antibiotics that have given him the trots."

Sherlock turned to look at him, the pictorial definition of exasperated, and he waved his hands in the air.

"Of course, being his mouth piece, I've found I've picked up his habit of over sharing personal details about people. It's actually quite liberating."

"I'm sure."

Sherlock got up and marched over. He scribbled something else that he handed to John.

John read it.

"Yeah, I'm not saying that either."

He started to crumple it up but Lestrade laughed and took it from him and looked at it.

"How can you even read this?"

"It helps that I know what he's likely to say. That first word is 'John, the third one starts with f and that bit's an 'ing' and the last word is one I haven't used regularly since my army days."

"Oh yes, I see it now."

"Yes. Apparently his language is a touch more salty when he writes. It's odd as he's quite well spoken."

Sherlock scribbled something and handed it to Lestrade. He looked at it and frowned.

"Can you help me with this one?" he asked John.

"It either says 'By the way, I sleep-talk about bunnies and suck my thumb regularly', or 'I hate you all'."

Sherlock's hand darted out and he pinched John hard on the cheek.

"Ow!" John said, still laughing. "OK, sorry, I'll stop. Just, get the job done so you can go home and lie down."

Sherlock spun around, but before he could go back to the bodies he swayed and staggered. John caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.

"OK?" he asked.

Sherlock, pale lipped, nodded slightly.

John took a bottle of water out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"Yes. The thing is, Sherlock, you're not well. Were you well, you'd have charged in here, solved the thing in less than ten seconds and charged out again uttering belittling comments at everyone, but you're not well, so you can't do that. Now would you like me to take you away before you accidentally throw up in front of all these lovely people?"

Sherlock sipped at the water. He sniffed, grimaced and nodded.

John helped him back up to his feet.

"OK, Greg, you're on your own with this one, I'm afraid."

"No problem, John. I'd ask you to let me know when he's better, but I'm sure he'll make himself heard."

John nodded and gently pushed the drooping, shivering Sherlock towards the road.


	11. Malnourished

**OK – there are a few notes.**

**First off, huge, huge thanks for reading and reviewing! Yesterday was a very good day, largely due to you lot!**

**There are a couple of people I can't respond to with PMs.**

**Anna Keye – waves! Thanks for reading and I'm glad you're enjoying it!**

**Chick – thanks! I've snagged hiccups and I'm thinking about how I'm going to tackle it. In the meantime, Nova-Chan wrote a great one on this called 'Localized Seizures'.**

**StargirlXxxx – Yes, my characters in these are all way off, but I'm comfortable with that. I'm trying to remember the last time I wrote something where I was desperately trying to stay in character… probably not since **_**Six Phantoms**_**, or perhaps **_**Absent Without Leave**_**. Since then I've just been shamelessly using the pair of them as writing practise and just hoping people enjoy them anyway!**

**Monsieur Chiggens – Thanks, and that's a fabulous moniker!**

**We owe this chapter to Personofnoconcern3000 (this is going much faster since getting prompted!). As nobody said 'Please don't publish it!' I'm going for it. Next chapter should be back on track.**

**Pip xxx**

Malnourished.

John ran up the stairs at Baker Street and dumped his rucksack at the bottom of the next flight. He went into the living room and looked around. It was empty and seemed remarkably neat.

"Sherlock? I'm home! Are you home?"

There was silence for an answer. He raised his eyebrows and nodded and quickly planned a pleasant afternoon of having an uninterrupted shower, some food that he'd be allowed to eat by himself, and peace and quiet to watch some telly without being shouted at. He smiled.

As he turned back to the stairs he noticed Sherlock's coat and scarf hanging on the hook. It was March, and so as long as John had known him, Sherlock had worn that coat outside on every occasion from early September to late July. And sometimes he put it on in August if he felt the blazing sun looked 'a bit nippy'.

He frowned and headed along to Sherlock's room. The door was open, but the room was dark. He could sense someone inside so he knocked gently.

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"Are you OK? Have you just finished a case?"

"No." Sherlock slowly raised a shaky hand and put it on his forehead. "No work this week."

He sounded weak and tired and John went inside to look at him.

"What's wrong? What's going on?"

"I don't know. I have a headache."

John frowned and went in further.

"How long have you had a headache?"

"Er, you're back, so it's Saturday, so er, three days."

"What have you taken?"

"Nothing!"

"I meant pain meds."

"Oh. Paracetamol. Not for a while though. It didn't work."

John sat on the bed and rested his hand on Sherlock's forehead for a moment.

"There's no fever. Are you dizzy?" "

"Yes."

"Any nausea?"

"Yes."

"Vomiting?"

"No. Not… I've been gagging a bit."

"But not bringing anything up?"

Sherlock winced. "No."

"It's dark in here. Are your eyes light sensitive?"

"Yes."

"What about your vision. Are things spinning? Or staying still while anything else spins or strangely haloed?"

"No. I've been seeing spots though."

"Light spots or dark spots."

"Both. Sometimes flashing. It helps if I shut my eyes."

"OK, I think you've got a migraine. Have you had one before?"

Sherlock grunted and shook his head.

"No," John said. "Well we'll keep an eye on it."

"What might have caused it? Are you thinking brain tumour?"

John laughed. "No, Sherlock. I'm thinking it might be connected to that knock you took a couple of months back, but we'll keep an eye on it. OK?"

"OK. Thank you."

"I'll go and make you a cup of tea, and then I'll nip out and get you something stronger than paracetamol. OK?"

"Thanks."

Sherlock shuffled down into the bed and John patted his leg and headed to the kitchen. He took out two cups, then thought about it and put one back. The kitchen was spotless. He scratched his head and made the tea.

"Here you go," he said quietly, taking it in to Sherlock. "I'll be back in twenty minutes, OK?"

"Yes. Thank you, John. I mean it. This hurts a lot."

"It's fine. I'll see you in a bit."

He went back out and walked through the immaculate kitchen. He stopped in the living room and turned and went back through to the kitchen and opened one of the cupboard doors. He cursed.

Before he'd gone, he'd shown Sherlock the food cupboard. It was well stocked and it was very well organised. John had put six boxes onto the two shelves, and in each one was the ingredients and cookery instructions for six, reasonably healthy meals with directions to where he might find ingredients that were refrigerated or frozen. He'd told Sherlock he could eat them in any order, and on one of the days, he should get a take away. He recommended supplementing these meals with toast or cereal spread out through the day. He suggested he invited a friend, or if he was short of friends, an enemy, or even a sibling, to eat with him sometimes.

John found within himself a tiny amount of 'benefit of the doubt' and he looked in the crockery cupboard. Not a plate had been moved. He knew that, because he'd planted one with a slight dribble of coffee on it at the top of the stack, knowing that anyone who wanted to use a plate would have to wash it up, or take one of the others, which would have been replaced on top.

He cursed again and dashed downstairs to knock on Mrs Hudson's door.

"Oh, you're back!" she smiled at him as she answered.

"Yeah, Mrs Hudson, did Sherlock eat with you at all when I wasn't here?"

"Yes, Love. He came down here on Sunday evening, just after you'd gone, and we had chicken together."

"OK, good. But since then?"

"No."

"OK. Did you make him any tea?"

"Tea? What's this about, John? I am your landlord, Dear, I keep telling you that. I'm not obligated to make you tea!"

"I know, Mrs Hudson, and you excel in your duties as a landlord, and because of your brilliance and wonderfulness as a person, you make us tea anyway, even though we're horrible ungrateful men who just make you worry. I'm just wondering though, did Sherlock drink any tea this week?"

"Oh, John…" she said, smiling and blinking hard. John sensed a hug coming on.

"Mrs Hudson? It's important."

"Maybe a couple of cups a day. Not yesterday or today though, because he's out."

"No he's not."

"What? He's been so quiet!"

"When you made him tea, did you give him biscuits?"

"Yes, sometimes. He likes the odd ginger nut. I meant to get more though, I ran out on Tuesday and he said he didn't want the Rich Tea. It's on my shopping list for next week!"

"OK, thank you. And did you cook him any other meals?"

"No. He said you'd sorted something out for him."

"Right. Thank you. Sorry to bother you Mrs H! You are, as always, and angel surrounded by ingrates!"

He kissed her on the cheek and headed back upstairs. He looked at the fruit bowl and saw that two apples had been eaten, three at the most. He shook his head and went back in to Sherlock's room.

"You've been starving yourself!"

"Please, John, don't shout!" Sherlock whimpered.

"Sherlock! You've been starving yourself! From what I can make out, you've eaten nothing but apples and biscuits for the best part of a week! And nothing at all for the last 48 hours! For God's sake, what is wrong with you?"

"Please, John!" He carefully shuffled himself up into a sitting position. He was sweating and very pale.

"No! Sherlock, you can't do this!" he sat down and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to look at him. "I know you think this eating regularly thing is a silly fad of mine, but it's not! You have to eat! If you don't, you won't just die, you'll feel pretty damned terrible first! Your muscles will waste, you'll find it painful to move, you'll have no energy at all and you'll get hideous, splitting headaches and you'll lose the capacity to _think_, though God knows, Sherlock, right now I'm not sure you could get more stupid!"

Sherlock panicked, leaned forwards and threw up the tea he'd just consumed all over John.

He shivered and blinked.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm really sorry, John. I did a quick assessment and you were the most wipe clean thing available."

"Oh. Good. Well as long as you thought about it first."

"I did."

"Though like I said, you are pretty stupid at times." He sighed. "You're malnourished. You've put nothing in your stomach for at least two days; it's going to rebel if you suddenly fill it full of tea. And your brain will hurt like the blazes if you starve it too! If you feel ill, it's entirely your own fault!"

He sighed again and got up.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to have a shower and get clean."

"I still feel sick. Me head still hurts."

"When I'm back, we're going to fix that. For now, and moving very, very slowly, get up and change your t-shirt. I expect you in the front room in fifteen minutes."

He left again.

Sherlock stared at the door feeling sorry for himself. He slowly manoeuvred himself upwards until he was sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor. His head felt heavy and he wondered if he could possibly get changed and into the front room in fifteen minutes. He thought about how angry John was, and decided he had to at least try.

He took his t-shirt off and the exertion made him dizzy. He threw up the remaining tea onto the t-shirt. He wished he'd thought of that before throwing up onto John, which he realised now, had been a little unfair.

He shuffled and crawled to get a clean t-shirt, and pulled himself up so that he could at least have the dignity of walking on two feet to the front room. He needed to lean heavily on the wall as he did so. He threw his t-shirt towards the washing machine and walked slowly to the front room.

John was already there, sitting in his armchair, looking annoyed. He'd drawn the curtains and put only one lamp on. There was a jug full of a pink liquid in front of him, a spoon, and a dosing syringe.

"Sit!" he commanded.

Sherlock staggered over to his armchair and fell onto it. He shook horribly and held a hand over his mouth.

"Bucket," John said pointing.

Sherlock grabbed it, gratefully, but nothing happened when he retched and retched.

"Yeah, that'll happen too if you starve yourself," John said.

Sherlock took a couple of deep breaths and shuddered. He sat back and put the bucket down.

"Can I please go back to bed?"

"No. Not yet, not until you've eaten something."

"I can't!" Sherlock wailed.

"You can. First, we need to rehydrate you and get your sugar and salt levels up. Open."

Sherlock opened his mouth and John squirted some of the liquid into his mouth from the syringe.

Sherlock swallowed it. "That's vile!" he said.

"Yes, it is. Sorry, they haven't yet found a way to make it taste better. They keep bringing out new flavours and they all taste equally vile."

"What is it?"

"Diorylite."

"Please tell me you're not going to make me drink it all!"

"I am and you are. Slowly though, you can have ten mils every five minutes."

"That's stupid!"

"Are you throwing up right now? No, so shut up." John sat back huffily and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said, staring at the jug full of liquid.

"Yeah."

"I am."

"I know. I just wish…"

"What?"

"You do this and now I feel guilty that I went away! It was one week, Sherlock! _One week!_" He sighed. "I don't understand it! You managed perfectly well before you moved in with me, so why is it now that you feel incapable of taking care of yourself when I'm not around?"

Sherlock wisely said nothing. They sat in silence until John checked his watch, filled the syringe and squirted it into Sherlock's mouth again.

"Thinking about it," Sherlock said, "I can probably manage to squirt it into my own mouth."

"Really?" John asked. "You couldn't even make yourself a cup of tea!"

Sherlock shuffled, ashamed, but took the syringe when John handed it over.

"Why did you do it?" John asked. "You can feed yourself, so why did you choose not to this week."

Sherlock wriggled. "You set a trap for me."

"What?"

"There was coffee on the plate."

"Maybe it just got left when I washed up?"

"You, John? When you wash up, no small amount of coffee gets left on plates."

"So you responded to the trap by not eating. You could just have used the next plate down and replaced it there and I'd never have known the difference."

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't think of that."

John smirked.

"Sorry," Sherlock said. "I meant, yes, that's what I did."

"Do you see how you can't outwit me when you're starving? Have some more of the stuff."

Sherlock obeyed.

"And another one," John said.

Sherlock obeyed again.

"I think you're looking better. I'll get a glass and you can try having a bit more. I'll make you some rice too."

"Rice?"

"Yes rice. That's what you're going to eat. Rice with soy sauce, and an apple. When your stomach's less sensitive, we'll increase the calories a bit."

"OK."

John bustled away and Sherlock sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. John came back with a glass and poured a small amount of the Diorylite into it. While Sherlock was drinking, he peeled an apple and cut off a small slice. He handed it across to Sherlock who ate it.

He grimaced. "That's not good," he said.

"Sit still and take some calm breaths."

Sherlock did so.

"OK?" John asked.

"Mm." Sherlock looked at him but didn't say anything.

"I just don't understand. I organised the food for you! It was all quick and easy, and stuff you like! Why didn't you just eat it?"

"I think it was because you organised the food for me."

"What?"

"You didn't think I could do it. You didn't think I could manage."

"So you chose to show me how capable you were by not eating?"

"No. I was just… look, it seemed to make sense at the time."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And the logic was…"

"I can't remember now."

"You're an idiot, Sherlock."

"Yes. I suppose I am."

"Drink a bit more." He poured another small glassful and passed it across.

Sherlock took it, and drank half. He put it aside and reached for the bucket, looking miserable.

"Sherlock, stay calm, and try very, very hard not to throw up. If you can't do this, I'll need to take you to hospital for re-feeding. I don't want to, but you might need it."

"Please no, John!"

"I want to avoid it. I want you to work through the nausea until you get to the hunger, and then we're probably home and dry, so just sit still and calm for a second."

Sherlock went still and closed his eyes for a while.

John sighed and shook his head.

"I wasn't trying to annoy you," he said. "I was trying to make things easier. I know you don't like the lights in the supermarket, so I thought I'd just get what you needed. I didn't mean it to be patronising. Sherlock don't… don't attack me by attacking yourself. It isn't fair and I'm not worth it."

"I remember the logic now."

"OK. What was it?"

"I was trying to show you I can manage without food. You fuss and flap because you don't think I can."

"I see. Right. And just how well is the 'doing without food' thing going for you at the moment?"

"This isn't…" he struggled again and grimaced.

"OK, just sit still. We'll talk when you're feeling better." He looked at Sherlock for a moment. "Sherlock, not all of this nausea is coming from your stomach, is it. Some of it's coming from your head. Am I right?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

John sighed and went to sit at the table with his computer. After a few minutes Sherlock sat up and drank the rest of the glass. He poured himself another small glass. John watched but didn't say anything. Sherlock reached for the apple and took a small bite before he sighed and put it down again.

"Do you want to try some rice?" John asked.

"If I say no, will you judge me harshly?"

"Yes. But I'll only give you a very tiny amount."

"OK. In a bit though."

"OK."

John watched Sherlock pour another small glass and drink it all.

"John, I don't like food," Sherlock said, quietly.

"You like some food, surely? I've seen you eat happily before. Well, I've seen you eat anyway, Sherlock…" He stopped and frowned.

"Sometimes I don't hate it as much as at other times," Sherlock said. "But I don't like it. It's all tiresome and corruptive and a waste of time and energy."

"But food gives you energy, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't answer. John frowned and walked back over to sit with him again.

"What do you mean by corruptive?"

"I don't know."

"Can you try to explain?"

Sherlock sighed again. "It makes me feel heavy and slow. I like it when I feel so light I can fly. That I can move through places without disturbing them, to observe but not to be observed. I don't want to be dragged down. Digesting slows me down and I feel anchored to the ground. It's a waste of time and energy."

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "You know, don't you, that you have to eat to survive. It's not optional."

Sherlock looked tiredly at him. "I know that sometimes. Then, at other times, I know equally as clearly that food is bad for me. It feels wrong. It makes me feel strange and like it's changing me somehow. It's taking over, it's in control, so it's dangerous. Sometimes, after a day or two of restricting myself a bit, I suddenly know that I can probably manage without it entirely."

"I see."

Sherlock shrugged. "At other times, I just think I don't deserve food. I've done nothing to earn it, I don't desire it, I'm clearly too stupid, so what's the point?"

John slowly sat back and nodded.

"It's OK. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I thought you were just not eating because you're a stubborn idiot. I didn't know, I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged again.

"How long has this been going on?" John asked him.

"I don't know. I don't remember it much in childhood. Probably since I was seventeen or so. Not all the time, just on and off."

"Have you spoken to anyone else about it? A doctor or anyone?"

"Yes. Once. I was nineteen and just after my first year exams I started convulsing and they took me to hospital. I told the doctor then about it."

"What did he do?"

"He suggested I speak to a psychiatrist."

"And did you?"

"No."

"No, I didn't think so. How's the nausea now?"

"OK. I'll drink some more. This stuff is clever, by the way, it's made my head stop hurting as much too. Maybe I should drink it all the time."

"No, you don't need it all the time, and I don't want to give you something else that you can use as a food substitute. Wait, give me a tick."

He jumped up and went into the kitchen and came back with some brown gloop on a spoon.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"It's peanut butter. I'd entirely forgotten we had it."

"I don't like peanut butter."

"No, but you might find your body does right now. You don't seem to be doing too well with the sweet stuff, so try this."

Sherlock took the spoon from him and nibbled a tiny bit from the end. He looked at John.

"I'm beginning to suspect you're not going to let this lie."

"You must be feeling better, Sherlock! That's the first vaguely clever thing you've said today."

Sherlock smirked and nibbled some more peanut butter.

"This isn't bad, actually."

"No, and it's full of energy. I have a suspicion that somewhere inside of you there's a tiny part of your body that wants to survive, and it will, hopefully, overrule your ridiculous brain."

"I think it likes the peanut butter." He licked some more from the spoon.

"Out of interest, if I hadn't set the coffee trap, would you have eaten at all?"

"I don't know. Thinking about it, probably not." He sucked on the spoon for a while. "The doctor that time when I was nineteen said I had an eating disorder."

"Yes."

"You think I've got one too, don't you."

"Yes."

"It's not about how I look. I like the way I look."

"No, I know. The idea that eating disorders are always connected to wanting to look thin is a massive oversimplification. Yes they're often connected to self esteem and body dysmophia and all sorts of stuff like that, but it's brains again, Sherlock. They're unique, subtle, and as confusing as hell, and sometimes eating can be problematic for a whole host of reasons that aren't connected to weight or looks. I don't want you to worry about it too much though. I suspect we'll get you back up on your feet before too long."

"Hm. Does that mean you're going to completely control what I consume from now on?"

"Not forever, no. I will do when you can't manage it though."

Sherlock panicked. "But you know, when I work I can't…"

"It's OK, Sherlock, it's fine. I'm going to try to manage it in a way that doesn't make you feel too strange, but that doesn't let you starve to death either. I'll take your working habits into account. If you want me to, that is; it's an offer, not a command, you're old enough to decide for yourself, and you can choose to see another doctor any time you want."

"OK, thank you. And yes. Please. I don't want another doctor."

"Good. Do you want that rice now?"

"Could I have a peanut butter sandwich instead?"

John smiled. "Yes, you can. And would you like to try a cup of tea now?"

"Yes, John. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I didn't mean for the tea."

"No. I know, and you're welcome."


	12. Drunk

**Yes, not really an illness, but it does sort of fit here. This one is in homage of Katkin. Her fic 'Tipsy' can be found in my favourites list.**

Drunk.

Sherlock looked up as the front door slammed. He heard John hissing 'Shhhh' at someone, or possibly at the door. A glance at the clock told him it was three o'clock. In the morning. He listened to John's uneven footsteps as he walked up the stairs. Half way up, he seemed to get distracted or lose interest and he stayed where he was for a moment before plodding on.

Eventually, he appeared in the front room and stood swaying in the doorway. He looked at Sherlock.

"Hello!"

"Hello," Sherlock said.

"Hello!" John said again, giving Sherlock a lopsided smile.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, frowning.

"I'm back!"

"Yes. You are."

"You're back too." He pointed.

"I haven't been anywhere. I take it you had a nice time?"

"Where?"

"At Nick's stag."

"Oh! I've just been there! It were great! You should, er, you know, er, come too next time."

"Is he intending to have another?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Sit down somewhere, you're drunk."

"No! No I'm not! I'm um… I'm ummmmm…"

"Drunk?"

"Yesh! That's it! Just a little, little tiny bit though." He pinched his fingers together to show him.

Sherlock sighed and went back to his computer.

John looked around the room for a while. He took a giant step forward with his left leg. He didn't bother moving his right one though, and hopped giddily across the room, dragging it along. He bumped into the table and giggled.

"Leg's not working," he said.

"No. Go to bed."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I love you."

"I know. Go to bed."

"No but, no but, no but…" John fell onto Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his neck in the clumsiest hug ever hugged. "I love you," he said.

"Go away, John, get off me!" Sherlock tried to push him away but it was like fighting jelly. John just kept flopping back on him.

"No but, but," John told him, while hugging, "sometimes you feel small 'cos I'm bigger, and then you worry, and I want you to know I love you."

"John, are you faking this?" He got up, taking John with him and he sat him down on an armchair. He pulled the other chair closer so he could take hold of John's head to examine him closely. His pupils were sluggish and he was sweaty and warm. There wasn't any obvious place he might have poured alcohol apart from into his mouth. Sherlock sighed.

"Are you doin' that mem'ry thing?" John asked him. "Because I can remember _everything_!"

"How did you get home?"

"Don' remember."

"I'm not doing that thing, I just want to check you're not injured or ill."

"Are you going to kiss me then?"

"What? No!" Sherlock let go of John's head.

"You can you know." John closed his eyes and puckered his lips, clumsily.

"I'm not going to kiss you!" Sherlock said. "Stop it!"

John opened his eyes. "Stop what?"

"John! What the hell have you done! You don't drink this much! You don't get drunk like this!"

"Oh, leave go! I was tired, I was tired and tired and tired." He sat back and closed his eyes. "The thing is, I love you but you're damned hard work! You're harder than any other person I know! And not in a good way!" He sniggered for a moment. "Sorry. Just, you're 'ard work but I love you, so it's worth it, but sometimes I want to just not be John Watshon for a bit. You have a turn." He poked Sherlock with a sticky shoe.

Sherlock watched him, astonished and slightly upset.

"It really is OK," John said. "'Cosh you're my mate and I love you so I do care and stuff like that, but…"

"But what?" Sherlock asked, with the feeling he was close to opening something he'd never be able to close again.

John opened his eyes wide and looked surprised. Sherlock frowned at him. John leaned forwards and threw up into Sherlock's lap.

"Sorry," he said.

"John!"

"But you're y'know, wipe clean though, so that's something."

"Right."

"Um… Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked up as John threw up on him again.

"Sorry," John said again.

"Can you please stop doing that?"

"Um, I think no…"

"No!" Sherlock pulled John up and pushed him towards the bathroom.

John got as far as the kitchen before he threw up down his front.

"I think that last drink might've gone off," he mumbled while he coughed.

"Yes, I'm sure that's the case," Sherlock said.

He pushed him into the bathroom.

"I feel better now," John said.

"Good."

Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt.

"If I say you've got a nice body, would you hold it against me?" John asked and sniggered.

"No! John, stop this! Stop it right now! We established a long, long time ago that I'm not interested in you, and even if I was, you're _really_ not interested in me!"

"I don't feel well."

Sherlock turned John so he was facing the toilet and John threw up next to it.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands.

"I cannot believe you're doing this!" he snarled. "I cannot believe you're behaving this way!"

"I'm sorry, Sh'lock. I'm sorry."

"I'm going to my room to get changed," Sherlock told him. "I suggest you try to clean up a bit, because I'm certainly not going to be cleaning up after you!" He stormed out.

He changed into pyjamas in his room and sat on the bed for a while, listening to John retch and groan. When he heard the toilet flush he went back to the bathroom. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded, looking at John. John had managed to undress down to his vest, boxers and socks and was resting his head on his arms on the toilet. He'd made something of an attempt to clean the floor too.

He looked mournfully at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You need to go to bed."

"No. Bed's far away. I'll sleep here." He closed his eyes.

"John, you've been to Afghanistan. One flight of stairs is not far away."

"Can I sleep in yours? 's closer."

"No."

"I went to 'fghan'stan."

"I know."

"I got shot."

"I know."

"It hurts."

Sherlock closed his mouth.

"Nick's getting' married," John said. "Nick is. _Nick!_ Nick's a pilchard 'nd an idiot and he's gettin' a wife and someone t' look after him, 'n' I'm nice 'n' I got shot 'n' I got _you_. Girls don' like me, so I might as well just give up. My shoulder hurts sometimes. Sometimes it hurts."

"John…"

John suddenly sat up properly and looked at Sherlock.

"It was blue!"

"What was?"

"The last drink. Had a sparkly thing in it, 'n' it was blue and red. That doesn't sound right, does it?"

Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"No, I think that the blue and red drink was certainly off and that's the cause of all of this."

"Yeah."

"I'm just pleased that the sparkler didn't take out your eye."

"Wha?"

"Come on, you can sleep on the sofa. You'll get stiff if you stay there."

He hoisted John up and pushed him back to the front room. John lay down obediently on the sofa. Sherlock dropped a blanket on him and John settled down. Sherlock went to bed.

oOo

John woke up with a pounding headache, and oversized tongue, and a slight confusion as to where he was. After a few moments, he recognised the living room ceiling and the leather sofa.

"Nggg," he said.

"Good morning," Sherlock said. "Well I say 'morning'…"

"Mornin'."

"Did you want coffee?"

"Yeah, a lot."

"I'll make it." He got up from the table and walked towards the kitchen.

"Thank…"

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. John was staring at a fixed point on the ceiling. He slowly moved his eyes to look at Sherlock.

"Oh God," he said.

Sherlock looked at him and shrugged.

John winced. "Oh God," he said again.

"I'll make you that coffee."

"Oh… God." John covered his face with his hands.

"It's fine," Sherlock said. "Anyone could get unlucky with a 'gone off' last drink."

"Oh. God."

Sherlock put the kettle on. "Do you want some toast? I've already had my breakfast, but I'm happy to make some for you."

John was silent and Sherlock went to look at him. He was sitting up now, with his face still in his hands.

"Do you want toast?" Sherlock asked.

John sniffed and moved his hands. "Maybe I should move out."

"Bit dramatic, don't you think? I was only offering you toast, not suggesting a shot-gun wedding."

"Oh God! Seriously! I'll just go, I'll just go right now! Give me half an hour to pack!"

"No, you can't move out, because if you do I might not eat again. Poor you. You're stuck with me. Now, do you want toast, it's a very simple question and one that your extremely simple brain should cope with. Even in its current state."

John looked at him. Sherlock looked back and pulled a face.

"Personally, I'm quite looking forward to a time of being on the moral high-ground for a while," Sherlock said. "None of this 'I know where to be sick!' and 'I know how to look after myself' smugness, so don't move out on my account. Now, for the fourth time; do you want toast?"

John looked at him. "Fine, well then I'll look forward to an equal period of being looked after and waited on then, shall I? A couple of slices of toast would be lovely, thank you." He sat back and put his feet up.

He was quiet and still for maybe two minutes before there was a scream and crash from the kitchen.

"What happened?" he called, wincing from the headache.

"Nothing! I'm fine! I just burnt my hand a bit…"

"Run it under the cold tap."

"I'm fine!"

John sighed. "Run it under the cold tap!" He got up to check what first aid might be required this time.


	13. Chicken Pox

**I've done a 'Sherlock has chicken-pox' chapter elsewhere and thought of giving it to John, but it **_**is**_** Sherlock's turn and all that…**

**xImperialGirlx suggested Chicken Pox or 'something eruptive' and as the only thing that that put into my mind was explosive diarrhoea with projectile vomiting I think I'll redo Chicken Pox instead!**

**Because yeah, I clearly have difficulty writing about vomit.**

Chicken Pox

Mrs Hudson carried a cup of tea up the stairs to where John was sitting on the sofa, reading a book.

"I brought you some tea!" she whispered to him.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson!" he whispered back.

"Some biscuits too."

"Mrs Hudson, I might have to marry you, you know."

"Oh the poor love!" Mrs Hudson said, looking at Sherlock's sleeping form, with the expression people usually reserve for sleeping babies, or kittens that have just had an operation.

He could see her point though. Sherlock was sleeping with his head on John's lap, his face buried into John's jumper and his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. His right ear, the only part of his face that was visible, had two, blazing red blisters on it. There were more on his feet that were twitching at the other end of the sofa.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take a turn, John? You know I'm more than happy to."

"I know, and thank you. If he wakes up and he's a bit more lucid, I'll take you up on that. I don't want him fighting you though."

"Is your arm OK?"

"Yes, it's fine. I've fought off far stronger delirious patients than him."

"The poor love!"

"Yes, the poor love, Mrs Hudson."

John stretched slightly and the movement half woke Sherlock, who put a hand to his temple to scratch at the pocks there. John caught his hand and moved it away. There was a brief struggle that John won, and Sherlock's arm snaked back around John's waist. It was only for a moment though as Sherlock shuffled, wriggled and woke fully. He looked blearily around the room, trying to work out where he was, and then up at John.

"What am I doing here?" he asked.

"That's where you wanted to sleep."

"I'm sure it isn't."

"You were quite insistent. I think the fever might have made you a bit clingy. Don't scratch." John moved Sherlock's hand again.

"It itches!"

"I know. If you're happy to let me go, sit up so that I can move."

Sherlock shuffled upwards until he was sitting upright. He continued shuffling so that he could scratch his back against the sofa.

"Stop doing that," John said.

"It itches!"

"I know! Right, I'm going to cook something soft and easy for you to eat." He got up and stretched properly and Mrs Hudson sat down next to Sherlock.

"John made me use witchy medicine," Sherlock whined at her.

"Oh you poor dear," Mrs Hudson said.

"It was an oatmeal bath!" John said, standing still to drink his tea. "And you felt better for it. You said so."

"I felt better while I was in it. Now I feel horrible again."

"Oh poor love," Mrs Hudson said. She brushed back Sherlock's hair and looked at the spots covering his forehead. "Will they scar?" she asked John.

"_Scar?_" Sherlock said. "You didn't say anything about scarring!" he glared at John.

"We're not going to worry about scarring right now," John said. "Right now, we're going to worry about the fever, which seems to be getting better, and the itching."

"That's not getting better," Sherlock said, scratching away at his shoulder.

"Sherlock, it's much less likely to scar if you stop scratching at it," John told him.

Sherlock immediately sat on his hands. Only for a moment though, and he slowly moved them up to the small of his back and scratched there.

"This couldn't get any worse," Sherlock whined.

The street door opened and closed and there was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, and then Lestrade burst into the room.

"Sherlock, we need… Holy crap!" Lestrade took two paces backwards and walked into Mycroft who had followed him in.

"Gosh," Mycroft said to Sherlock. "Look at you!"

"Yes, marvellous, everybody should come and look at me. I really am freak now, aren't I!" Sherlock turned and buried his face into Mrs Hudson's shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him and frowned at Mycroft.

"Why did nobody tell me he had chicken pox?" Mycroft said. "I could have sent a doctor over."

"Really?" John said, raising his eyebrows at him.

"A different doctor," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Do you think he needs a different doctor?" John asked.

"John made me use witchy medicine, Mycroft."

"Well there we are then," Mycroft replied.

"Right, good," John said. "While you sort out a different doctor, I'll go and make some lunch, should I? Will you two be staying? No? Good." John marched off into the kitchen.

"I didn't mean any offence," Mycroft said.

"I'd better be going," Lestrade said. "Clearly you can't work today."

Sherlock's head popped up again.

"Yes I can!"

"No you can't," John called from the kitchen.

"Yes I can!"

"No, you can't, Sherlock!" John said, coming back in. "If it wasn't enough that you're still contagious…" both Lestrade and Mycroft covered their mouths and stepped back. John rolled his eyes and shook his head at them. "If that's not bad enough, you're still very uncomfortable, and a mere three hours ago you had a temperature of 103 degrees and you were raving! There's no way you can work! Stop scratching!"

Sherlock sniffed. "I think we've already established that I need a better doctor and I needn't listen to you."

"If his temperature is that high, why didn't you take him to hospital?" Mycroft asked.

"Because he doesn't like hospital, and I was confidant it would come down again. A different doctor might have made a different decision and might have shipped him in."

"I don't want a different doctor," Sherlock said quickly.

"There you go. Sorry, Inspector, Sherlock can't work today. Sherlock, stop scratching. Mycroft,… goodbye."

"It _itches!_" Sherlock wailed.

"I _know!"_ John sighed. "Look, everyone who doesn't live in this building needs to leave now. I'm sorry, but you do."

"But I want to work, John!"

"And you can't! Stop scratching!"

"_Jooooohn!"_

It was the most pitiable whine, and John sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"OK, Greg, can you video the scene and call in with details and stuff?"

"Well yeah, I _can_…"

"Well then he might be able to help you a bit that way."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but if it takes his mind off the itching it might help a bit."

"It really itches," Sherlock said.

"Stop scratching," John said.

"But it itches!"

"OK, Greg, you go and do that, Sherlock, I'll get you some more anti-histamines, and Mycroft… you just go. If you want to consult with other doctors, knock yourself out, I don't care. Oh, and everybody should feel free to give back their keys which I'm not sure I agreed to you having."

"That's clearly not going to happen, John," Mycroft said. He nodded, turned, and marched stiffly from the room.

"OK," Lestrade said, "if crime-solving by video conference is the best we can do, then I'll take it."

"It won't be nearly as good," Sherlock sniffed.

"Sherlock, stop scratching!" John told him.

"It itches!"

"I know!"

"I'll leave you alone now," Lestrade said. He dashed out of the door.

"Right, more medicine and some food for you, Sherlock. And if you don't stop itching, I'm going to amputate both hands."

Sherlock sat on his hands again, and used his left foot to scratch his right leg.

"Nggg!" John said, throwing his hands into the air and going back into the kitchen.

"You'll feel better soon, Love," Mrs Hudson said. "You already look better than you did this morning."

"I feel worse. I asked him to give me general anaesthetic until it was all over, and he wouldn't!"

"No, Dear. He would have had to have taken you to hospital for that though."

"I've got spots in my mouth!"

"Oh dear, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, giving him a quick squeeze.

"And up my nose!"

"Poor you," she said, rubbing his arm gently.

"And in my bottom!"

She stopped hugging him and moves slightly away. "I'm not sure I need all of the details, Sherlock."

"And all over my…"

"Right!" she said loudly, standing up. "I'll leave you alone for a bit now shall I? Just give me a call, Doctor Watson if there's anything you need. I'll cook you a nice dinner tonight, shall I?"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John said, coming back in with a plate of eggs and a glass of water. "Here, Sherlock, I've made scrambled eggs. They'll be good for you if you can manage them. And here, more pills." He sat back down on the sofa.

"They're all over my scalp, John!" Sherlock whined. "They're in my hair!"

"Oh, thank goodness," Mrs Hudson said.

"And on my penis!"

"I'm going," Mrs Hudson said. "See you both later." She scurried away.

"Come on, Sherlock, stop talking about it and try to eat something. Here eggs. Anti-histamines, water. After you've had all of that lot, we'll put more calamine lotion on, and I'll help with your back, and absolutely _nowhere_ else. And then we'll have a look and see what Greg might have arranged to entertain you a bit. OK?"

Sherlock sniffed and looked at the various things on the coffee table.

"I need more cuddles," he said, sorrowfully.

He flopped down back onto John's lap and wrapped his arms around his waist again. He shut his eyes and sighed.

"Right, fine," John said, patting his arm gently. "I'll get back to my book then shall I?"


	14. Poor John's Tum

Poor John's tum.

Lestrade glanced up as Sherlock marched into the room, coat tails flapping behind him.

"Right!" Sherlock barked. "What have we got? Yes. Yes." He spun around looking at everything around and the corpse that was on the sofa. He glanced at Sally Donovan before dismissing her from his mind while she huffed and sighed. "Yes," he said again. "Right, corpse."

"Mr Colin Harrington, widower of Mrs Sheila Harrington." Lestrade told him. "Two children from the marriage, a forty year old son who's in America now, and a daughter of… Christ, John, are you OK?"

John looked up at him. "I'm fine. Just a bit queasy, don't worry, carry on."

"You're really quite pale and shaky though!"

"I'm fine."

"He's fine," Sherlock said. "I made the mistake of cooking a delightful meal for him and this is an extremely funny joke on his part about me poisoning him. He's taking it too far now and you should all ignore him."

John sighed and shook his head.

"I'm fine. I'm just a little…" he grimaced for a second. "Queasy."

"Yes, very funny," Sherlock said. "Shall we get on with the job in hand now? The daughter you were saying. She lives locally then, and has children of her own. The grandchildren pictures there… What else… there was someone new in his life. A romantic entanglement… Yes? What is it, John?"

"Sorry, Sherlock, I'm going to have to go home."

"Why?"

"Mostly because I don't want to spew my DNA all over a crime scene. I'll er…"

"What? Go then! I don't care!"

"Er, cab money. Could you lend me… sorry, excuse me!"

He hurried out of the front door, and the sound of vomiting drifted in through the window alongside the birdsong and someone in the distance mowing their lawn.

"God!" Sally muttered and rolled her eyes.

"I know!" Sherlock said. "If I've poisoned him, I'll never hear the end of it!"

"Couldn't you have just let him rest, just this once, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"No! He's clearly being silly! Now shall we get on?"

There was the sound of renewed retching.

Lestrade covered his eyes and shook his head.

"What?" Sherlock said. "He's a grown man, he's vomiting, this is not, or shouldn't be, a big deal. Now can we please get on?"

Lestrade sighed. "Fine, OK, well the neighbour says he definitely saw him in the garden at three yesterday afternoon. He didn't hear or see anything…"

John staggered back in, sniffing and looking hugely embarrassed.

"Sorry, Sherlock, could you lend me cab money, please?"

"Fine!" Sherlock pulled his wallet out. "I _didn't_ poison you though, and you're being very ungrateful!"

"You can't possibly catch a cab," Lestrade said. "It'll cost a fortune if you hurl in it."

"Well I'll try not to!" John said, shortly.

"No, I mean, I'll drive you home. Give me three minutes."

"You can't go!" Sherlock cried. "If he's not here, then I definitely need you here! You're the senior ranking police officer!"

"Fine, Donovan, could you…?"

"No way! He's not throwing up in my car."

"Please," John whimpered, "cab money will be fine!"

"Donovan, you drive my car…"

She rolled her eyes.

"Or I'll just walk!" John said. "Or I'll just sit outside for a while. Yeah, that's what I'll do." He left again.

"You two!" Lestrade yelled. "Seriously! You're as bad as each other!"

"I am not!" they chorused, then turned away from each other.

"I'm taking John home," Lestrade told them. "And you two can… you two can think about what you've done! Or better still, work sensibly together for an hour." He stormed out.

Sherlock and Sally turned to look at each other again. They both sighed.

oOo

Several hours later, Sherlock angrily climbed the steps at Baker Street. He stomped into the living room and glared at John who was lying on the sofa in his pyjamas. One arm was draped over his face.

"Well, you ruined a perfectly good case, thank you!" Sherlock took his coat off and hung it up in a huff.

John took a moment to answer. "I was only sick in the garden," he said, very calmly. "I didn't disturb the crime scene, and before I vomited I checked the ground for evidence and there was none."

"You might have missed something, you were clearly in a rush."

"Fine. Whatever. Next time if I say I'm not feeling well, don't drag me out anyway."

"I thought you were being silly."

"I wasn't." He writhed for a bit and whimpered.

Sherlock sniffed and walked over to his computer. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"This is closer to the bathroom."

"You're still vomiting? Surely you've got it all out of you by now."

"Apparently not."

"You didn't even eat that much."

"It wasn't very nice."

"Well I like that!"

"Oh, hell." John got up and staggered to the bathroom where he spent an unpleasant five minutes vomiting up bile.

Sherlock buried himself in his work. He looked up from a fascinating article about a woman's dog biting a pensioner as John walked unevenly into the room.

"The good news is…" John said, and he shook a bit. He took a deep breath. "You didn't poison me, I'm fairly sure."

"No. Of course I didn't, you're just being silly." He turned back to his computer.

"Yeah, but the…" he looked around and swayed. "Oh dear…" he said and he fainted.

Sherlock was so surprised he just sat there, looking at the puddle of doctor on the floor before he realised he probably should get up and do something with him.

John was stirring by the time he'd rolled him over.

"What happened?" he asked, blearily.

"You fainted. Or at least, it looked like you did. Only you don't faint, I faint, not you! What are you doing? Are you crying? You don't do that either!"

"No!" John cried, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and fighting the urge to sob like a baby. "Sherlock, I need you to take me to the hospital now please!"

"What? Why? You're allowed to cry sometimes, John. I'm fairly sure it's allowed."

"Sherlock, no! I'm fairly sure I've got appendicitis. Please could you help me to the hospital?"

"Appendicitis? I suppose that explains why you feel really hot."

"Yes! Please Sherlock, could you not be incompetent right now? Please just help me get there! Oh God, this ruddy hurts!" He writhed and quivered.

"OK, yes, I can certainly help you."

He looked up as Mrs Hudson walked into the room.

"What's going on?" she asked. "There's a whole racket downstairs!"

"It's not me, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. "It's John! Look! He's got appendicitis!"

"Sherlock!" John yelled and then he whimpered and cried some more through gritted teeth.

"Oh John!" Mrs Hudson said. "Sherlock! You get him to a hospital right now!"

"I'm going to!" He stood up and reached for his coat. "This means I really didn't poison him!" he whispered to Mrs Hudson. "Right, John, let's get you to hospital! Goodness, you could probably fry eggs on your forehead! Or poach them even, what with all the sweat."

"Yeah, thanks. Could you get me a towel please?"

"Why?"

"In case I'm sick in the cab."

"Oh, good idea. That'll save us some money! Here, lean against this wall."

He propped John against the wall while he dashed for a towel.

John staggered over to a chair instead, and he desperately tried to put his shoes on without bending.

"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson said, stooping to help him. "Is there anything else that you need? Shouldn't we call an ambulance?"

"No, thank you, Mrs H. I'm fine in a cab. Oh God…" He gritted his teeth again.

"Right, here you are," Sherlock said. "A towel for emergencies and you can borrow a dressing gown. What are you sitting there for! Come on man, look lively!" He stood John up and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

"Thank you, Sherlock!" John said, weeping some more.

"Don't mention it. And stop crying, it's not like it's my favourite one! Right, I'll be back in half an hour, Mrs Hudson. If you can make me a sandwich, that would be marvellous!"

He bustled John downstairs and onto the street.

There was a slight delay when they got there, as Sherlock found that the cabbies of London were reluctant to stop for a tall, psychotic looking man and another looking pale and shaky in pyjamas and a dressing gown. Eventually Sherlock sat John down on the doorstep and smiled as he flagged the next one down.

"I'll pay you double," he said cheerfully to the cabbie.

"For what… Oh no, I'm not taking him!"

"Yes you are," Sherlock said, the cheerful smile vanishing as he held the door open. "He's perfectly house-trained. John get in. You, ULC please, nice and smoothly."

"Look…" the cabbie started.

"No, he's not getting out until we're at a hospital, drive or I'll report you!" He hopped into the back next to John.

John wiped his face on the towel. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"See, not too incompetent, I'm I!"

"No, you're great." He smiled and then retched into the towel.

"I'm charging you for that!" the cabbie called.

"No, you're not, not if you want to keep your license!" Sherlock barked. "OK?" he asked John.

"Mm. Sorry."

"It's fine." He smiled at John.

John frowned back.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You're being nice!"

"Yes. You're not well and I didn't poison you."

"Stop it. It's weird. And it's making me wonder if I'm delirious."

Sherlock grinned at him.

It didn't last. Sherlock was reasonably patient as John was checking in. He struggled to see why the receptionist didn't just accept John's diagnosis.

"You're more qualified than him!" He grumbled. "In addition, you have insight into what you're feeling."

"It's fine, Sherlock. Look, thanks for getting me here, but I'm fine now. You're fine to leave."

"No, I'll stay."

"Oh good."

Sherlock was slightly less patient as they waited for a doctor to see them.

"You're clearly the most ill person here!" Sherlock snapped.

"No, I'm not."

"It's ridiculous! That child who queue jumped just had a bit of a cough."

"That child was having an asthma attack. I'm breathing, so she trumps me."

"It's ridiculous."

"Seriously, Mrs Hudson's probably got you a sandwich ready by now."

"No, she's not going to. She had that look on her face when I'd said something wrong."

"Well just sit quietly then, hey?" John wiped his head and quivered a bit.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Are you desperately trying not to show how much pain you're in?"

"No!"

He swayed and his eyes rolled slightly. He fell sideways against Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock said holding him up.

"John?" Someone said, dashing over.

Sherlock looked up and was pleased to see Prateek there. John revived slightly.

"Sorry, must have gone to sleep."

"He's being stupid!" Sherlock told Prateek.

"John? What's happening, mate?"

"Sorry, Prateek," John said. "It's just a spot of appendicitis. No need to flap." He closed his eyes and leant against Sherlock.

Prateek called for a porter with a wheelchair.

Sherlock sniffed. "If I'd have known he'd get swifter attention by fainting, I'd have suggested he did it some time ago."

Prateek wheeled John into a cubicle. "Can you stand up and put the gown on do you think? I'm going to get kit, I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'm fine, Prateek. Don't you worry about me. There was a kid with asthma…"

"We're sorting the kid with asthma."

"There was an old gent with a pretty nasty cut…"

"He'll be seen in good time."

"There was…"

"John, stop wasting your energy and get changed. I'll be back in a little bit." He ducked out.

John sighed and used the bed to pull himself up. He fumbled with the cord of his dressing gown for a moment until Sherlock grew impatient and sighed, stripped him, shoved him into the hospital gown, and shunted him onto the bed.

"There, done!" he said.

"Pass me a bowl," John choked.

Sherlock did so and John hurled again just as Prateek came back around the curtain.

"So, Prateek," Sherlock said, "How's Sue?"

"What? Oh, fine. You OK there, John?"

John nodded and tried to breathe calmly.

"Is the pregnancy going well?" Sherlock enquired politely.

"Yeah, fine. John?"

John gagged and threw up green pus streaked with blood.

"Pretty," Sherlock commented.

John's eyes rolled again and Prateek caught him, guided him backwards and suddenly the area was filled with porters, nurses and calls for an empty theatre. Sherlock stood there in the middle of it all for a few seconds, and then John was gone.

"OK," he said, standing alone with a pile of John's pyjamas. He quietly went back to the waiting area.

oOo

Just over an hour later, Prateek spotted him and went over to see him.

"Mr Holmes, I'm sorry for being so short with you earlier."

"It's fine. How's John, where is he?"

"He's in surgery at the moment…"

"Then why aren't you there?"

"Because I'm not a surgeon. Look, let me show you to one of the family rooms, you'll be more comfortable there. I've asked Pete to let me know the moment John's out of recovery and I'll come and find you, OK?"

"Yes, OK, thank you."

"It's a girl, by the way."

"What is?"

"My future daughter."

"Well obviously, man! Daughters always are!"

Prateek frowned for a second, but rallied and smiled and showed Sherlock to a small cubicle with chairs and a vending machine and three other nervous relatives. Sherlock dismissed them all from his mind and sat down to wait.

It was another half hour before Prateek came in with a slightly disturbing expression on his face.

"Mr Holmes, John's been taken up to a ward now. Would you like to come along?"

"Yes, certainly. Did it all go according to plan?" He followed him and they got into a lift.

"Yes, mostly. Sorry, well the operation itself was fine, but have you ever known John to have a reaction to general anaesthetic?"

"What? No! Why, what's happened?"

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," Prateek said, smiling. "We've put him in a private room though. I didn't want to disturb the other patients."

The lift door opened and he followed Prateek into the corridor.

"What's going on?" Sherlock demanded.

"Like I say, it's nothing to worry about, but… well, you'll see."

They walked through several other corridors and around several corners until Sherlock was well and truly directionally challenged, and eventually onto a ward and into a small cubical.

There was John.

"And it's frooooom the old we travel to the new! Keep me following along with you!" he sang.

His eyes were tightly shut.

"Right," Sherlock said.

"Yep. It seems he has finished 'Onward Christian Soldiers.'"

"Why are his hands restrained?"

"He was conducting quite vigorously and I didn't want him to take his stitches out. He doesn't seem to mind."

"No."

Sherlock walked over. John's eyes opened and flickered over to him. He paused in his song.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

John frowned. He seemed to dismiss him from his mind and his face became peaceful again. "Guide me, O thou great redeeeeeemer," John sang. "Pilgrim through this barren land, I am weak, but thou art miiiiiighty…"

"Right," Sherlock said.

"I think he'll probably be fine in a bit," Prateek said.

"Yes. I have noticed that he tends to get a touch religious when he's in pain or frightened."

"Well it's probably the best time for it."

"Yes."

"Feeeeeed me 'til I want no moooore! Feed met ti-il I want no more!"

"Right," Sherlock said. "OK. Good."

"What are you doing?"

"Videoing it! What else would I be doing right now?"

"Right. I'll leave you two alone then."

Prateek left John to his merciless redeemer.

* * *

**Lots of prompts here…**

**from an anonymous reviewer "****please please please put more stories with him (Lestrade) in it on! maybe one where john gets ill at a crime scene or something and takes care of him and sherlock gets all jealous..." **

**Frrom Ardx "****What about food poisoning from sherlock's food?" (though obviously I cheated here).**

**From Akisura12 "Apendicitis is always a plotpoint." Yep. Always. I have to admit to having used it twice now myself!**

**The last bit may be the way someone I know reacted when I, sorry, _she_ came around after having her wisdom teeth removed. Aparently she was terrified the GA would rob her memory, so she was testing it out.**

**Pip xxx**


	15. Poor Sherlock's finger

**Oh noes! I accidentally slipped into hurt/comfort. Hurt/mocking is my general MO. Oh well. I've tried to sneak a few laughs in here somewhere.**

Poor Sherlock's finger.

Sherlock brought the cleaver down hard and was gratified that the ribs split so cleanly and evenly from the blow.

"I _do_ look after you!" he said. "I look after you whenever you need it!"

"No," John said from where he was stirring a saucepan on the hob. "You look after me either when _you think_ I need it, which isn't the same thing at all, or when someone else guilts or shames you into doing so."

"You're an army doctor! You clearly don't need that much care!"

"I haven't been an army doctor for quite some time, and occasionally a little tiny bit of care or comfort, or at the very least a dialling down of the Sherlock-ness of you would be quite nice."

"You'd still be limping around London with a stick if it wasn't for me!" He brought the clever down on the next rib.

"And I've expressed my gratitude for that a hundred times over. But the fact remains, I look after you more than you look after me. It's fine, I expect it, after all, I am a doctor and that was one of the things about me that made you want to move in with me."

"Only for case work! If I'd have wanted someone flapping and fussing around me like a mother hen, I'd have just moved in here alone and let Mrs Hudson do that."

"So when you woke me up the other night because you were peeing blood, you weren't looking for sympathy and assistance at all."

"I knew you wouldn't let me forget that," Sherlock grumbled. "And anyway, I didn't need help after all did I?"

"No. You didn't. And yet you insisted on sleeping in my bed _for the shock_."

"In my defence, you could have warned me that might happen if I eat four packs of beetroot."

"In _my_ defence, I didn't think that anyone would eat four packs of beetroot straight out of the fridge. And maybe we should start working on…"

"Oh don't start on about my diet again!" He whacked the clever down hard.

"Fine. Have you finished with those ribs yet?"

There was silence.

"Sherlock?" John said, turning around.

There was Sherlock, pale and swaying, staring at his left hand and his left index finger which was a couple of inches away from it. Blood was pouring out, pooling on the table and dripping to the floor.

John cursed, flicked the hob off and grabbed a bag of frozen peas and several ice-packs from the freezer.

"John…" Sherlock said, still swaying.

"I know, I've got it. Sit down." He pushed Sherlock gently onto a chair, and quickly wrapped the peas in a tea-towel and he put Sherlock's hand onto it. He put another icepack on top and used Sherlock's non-wounded hand to hold it firmly in place.

"John!"

"It's fine. We'll sort it." He quickly wrapped the finger in cling-film and popped it in a tupperware tub with ice.

He dashed into the living room for his coat, and he grabbed his first aid bag from the floor, put the tub with the finger in it, and slung it on his back.

"John…" Sherlock said.

"OK? Are you ready…" he skipped back while Sherlock threw up on the floor.

"Sorry," Sherlock said.

"Never mind that. Come on." He supported Sherlock under his elbow while he stood and then he switched to holding the ice-packs in place while he guided him downstairs and onto the street. John hailed a cab and as soon as one arrived, he bustled Sherlock into it.

"UCH please mate," he said to the driver.

"What's up with him?" the driver asked, setting off, but looking at John in the rear view mirror.

"Severed finger. It's entirely contained, there'll be no mess."

Sherlock lurched and threw up on the floor of the cab.

"I'll pay for the valet," John said.

"No, mate, don't worry! The poor guy's severed a finger! I only charge if it's drunks. Children, pregnant women or injured men don't have to pay for a bit of sick. Don't worry, I always wanted to be an ambulance driver!"

John's eyes widened as the driver sped up and with the cab screeching and rocking he bounded through the London streets.

"You holding up OK?" John said quietly to Sherlock. He fished a bottle of water out of his bag and handed it over

Sherlock sipped at the water and then his face fell and he cried. "My finger!" he sobbed.

"We're going to try to reattach it, Sherlock."

"I _like_ my fingers!"

"I know. Let's not start mourning it quite yet though. We got it on ice quickly, so there's a lot of hope."

"I need _all _my fingers," Sherlock wailed.

"I know, but calm down for now, can you? Settle down a bit."

Sherlock shook his head and used his right hand to wipe his face. He didn't stop crying.

"It's above the first knuckle, Sherlock," John told him calmly. "And it's your left hand, so that's something."

Sherlock sobbed again and shook his head. "I know it is! That's my _violin_ hand, John!" he squeaked.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John looked horrified. "I forgot!"

Sherlock turned and buried his face onto John's shoulder and cried shamelessly. For the rest of the journey, John restricted himself to holding the ice in place and gently rubbing Sherlock's head a bit.

Sherlock calmed himself to a steady weep as they got to the hospital, and he stood silently as John checked him in, pushed him through to a cubicle, outlined the situation to a team of several surgeons, emphasising that Sherlock was a concert level violinist and he needed as much use of the finger as was possible.

Everyone left to prepare themselves for surgery and John turned back to Sherlock.

"Let's get you undressed and all prepared shall we?"

Sherlock nodded. He was still sniffing, but he seemed a little calmer now. John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and tied a hospital gown on him. He sat him on a chair to take off his shoes and socks and carefully and discreetly removed Sherlock's trousers. He put him on the trolley and canulated him.

"Oh, I was just coming to do that!" a nurse said, coming into the cubicle.

"Sorry," John said. "Force of habit. Can he have sedatives now?"

"Yes, Dr. Althorp has just listed them for him."

"Marvellous."

"He also cleared you to administer if you want. I didn't know you were a doctor." She looked at him through her eyelashes.

"Oh, yes." He smiled at her. "I am."

"OK, saline's there, I'll just go and get the rest from the drug's locker." She smiled at him.

"Thanks." He smiled back and watched her leave.

He turned back to Sherlock who was giving him a look.

"What?"

"Let it be known that if you'd have severed your finger, and if I happened to be a doctor, and if I happened to be in a good enough mood, I'd look after you. And I'd do it without flirting with the hospital staff."

John grinned. "Sherlock, if I'd have severed my finger, you'd be dissecting it before the first drops of blood had fallen."

Sherlock grinned back before he sighed and leant back, weeping again.

"Will you be in the surgery with me?"

"No. I'll see you in recovery afterwards. I'll make sure to have my camera ready in case of singing."

"OK."

The nurse came back with a porter.

"Surgery's ready so Dr Caulwell will sedate in there when he does the GA."

"OK, marvellous," John said. "Right, I'll see you in a bit then, Sherlock." He waved him off.

His phone rang.

"Um, sorry, you're not supposed to…" the nurse said, looking embarrassed.

"It's fine. I'll take it outside."

He headed quickly out and returned Lestrade's call.

"John?" Lestrade said. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Oh. Mrs Hudson just called me in a fret. She says your kitchen looks like there's been a fight in it, so she called me, and I can't get hold of Sherlock."

"Oh, no, we're fine. Well, I'm fine, Sherlock's severed a finger though."

"Really? Why did he do that?"

"Well my current hypothesis is that it was an accident."

"Oh. Sorry. But with Sherlock you never can tell."

"Mm. He's quite upset about it. It's his violin hand."

"Oh, no! I think he'd rather lose his texting finger!"

"Yeah, well they're reattaching it now, so we'll see. Look, I'd better call Mrs Hudson."

"OK, is there anything I can do?"

"It'd be nice if the criminals of London could be quiet and still for a couple of weeks."

"I'll do what I can."

He hung up and called Mrs Hudson and waded through epic amounts of concern, further concern, and 'oh the poor Dears' before he extracted himself from the conversation and went back inside to offer any help she might need to the pretty young nurse.

**To be continued…**

**Sorry, I there will be a part two of this one, but it's getting lengthy and slightly odd. I'm going to come back to it tonight, and will hopefully have it done by Tuesday.**

**Pip xxx**


	16. The Severed Finger

**Gah! I'm so sorry to have flung that one at you! Yes, you are all right, it was a very cruel thing to do! Still, I've worked extra hard to bring you this bit today.**

**And thank you for all the reviews – apologies for not responding to all of them individually; I thought I ought to focus on getting this chapter finished. For some of them I couldn't work out of you were really, properly telling me off, so if you were - I apologise! (though he is just pretend!)  
**

**Pip xxx**

The Severed Finger.

**Day Zero.**

It was late when the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. John yawned as he paid the cabbie, and Sherlock bounded across the pavement and banged at the doorknocker.

"Sherlock, stop it," John told him. "I've got a key."

He opened the door and Sherlock ran in and dashed to Mrs Hudson's door, calling for her. He banged against that one too with his good hand.

Mrs Hudson opened her door for him.

"Mrs Hudson, look what I did!" Sherlock said with wide, starry eyes. He held up his hand and showed her the bandage. It looked like a sterile, white boxing glove.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said, drawing him into a hug.

He pulled back from her. "Do you have food! I need food!"

He pushed past her into her flat.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Among the many drugs we've given him, something's made him a bit manic."

"So I see."

"I was hoping I could contain him more easily here. I'll take him upstairs."

"Were you able to save the finger?"

"Well, I didn't do much of anything but the surgeon he got is _very_ good. Only time will tell though. Let me get him out of your flat."

Sherlock was lining up Mrs Hudson's cutlery on the worktop.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you upstairs and to bed."

"I'm not sleepy!"

"I can tell. Come on now."

He pushed Sherlock around and out of the flat.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Hudson."

"It's fine, Love. Let me know if you need any help with anything."

"Will do."

"I think this bandage must be miles long," Sherlock told him, looking at his padded hand as they walked up the stairs.

"Probably."

"I bet I could measure it with my eyes."

"Yes, but you're leaving it on your hand for now. Sit down there now, I'll get you some biscuits. Do you think you could manage some biscuits and milk?"

"Mm." Sherlock sat down on the sofa and John went into the kitchen.

"I can't find the end!" Sherlock called to him.

John frowned and went to see what he was talking about. Sherlock was wriggling one long finger down the bandage.

"Leave it alone!" John yelled and dashed over to him to catch his hand. "Sherlock, you need to leave it alone. OK? Just leave it alone for now."

"OK."

"OK?"

"OK."

"OK. I'm just in the kitchen for a second. I think you need something to eat, I'll be back in less than a minute."

"OK." Sherlock watched him go. He looked at his bandage again but fortunately dismissed it from his mind. He leapt up and headed to his computer, opened it one handed and turned it on. He typed in his password, and scrolled through his email.

One needed an answer and both hands went instinctively to the keyboard.

"I can't type!" he called.

"No, not at the moment. Not with both hands."

"No, I could if I just take this off…" he started worrying at the bandage again.

"Come over here, look, I've got ginger nuts for you, come on Sherlock." John led him back to the sofa and sat down next to him.

Sherlock seemed distracted by the food and he ate happily. John sighed and rubbed his face for a while.

"This isn't tea," Sherlock told him.

"No. It's milk. Drink it, then you can have some pain meds, and then we'll go to bed."

"Both of us?"

"What?"

"Together?"

"No, not together. You'll go to your bed and I'll go to mine. OK? Are you done?"

"I'll need help undressing."

"OK, I'll help. Come on." He waited as Sherlock swallowed a couple of pills, then pushed him through to his bedroom. He helped him get changed and tucked him into bed. "You OK there?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"OK. I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning, and if you wake up in the night and need anything, you come and wake me up. OK?"

"OK."

John headed out. He hadn't made it to the staircase before he heard footsteps. He turned and went back into the living room. Sherlock was staring at the bookshelves.

"I need something to read," he said.

"OK, choose something and go back to bed."

"I can't choose."

John grabbed a random book. "Here you go. Back to bed now." He pushed Sherlock back to his room and put it back to bed.

He left again but didn't get as far as the kitchen. He sighed and turned around.

"Yes? Can I help you with something?"

Sherlock scratched at his ear. "Something's wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know."

"Well, let's assume that nothing's wrong until we know what is."

"I usually know things."

"Yes, I think you're tired. Come on. Back to bed."

He returned him to his room, settled him, and gathered assurances that Sherlock would stay in his bed until morning.

He went to his room and got ready for bed, feeling hungry but utterly exhausted. He suddenly realised that Mrs Hudson had been in to clean their kitchen and he made a note to buy her flowers in the morning. Using Sherlock's credit card. He went to brush his teeth and then stood in the hallway listening to the silence in the flat. There was something deeply suspicious about the silence, and he went downstairs quietly.

Sherlock was in the living room, staring at his violin and worrying at his bandage.

"What are you doing?" John asked him.

"I'm looking at my violin."

"Why?"

"It's making me sad."

John sighed. "OK, come on, back to bed. We'll think about your violin tomorrow, but I want you to go to bed now."

He took Sherlock back to his room, settled him in bed and then got in beside him and put a restraining hand over his wrist.

"I can't sleep," Sherlock said.

"I know. We're just going to lie here nice and calmly for a while."

"OK. My ceiling's nice. I like my ceiling."

"That's good."

"Your room is upstairs."

"Yes, I know. I'll go back there in a bit."

"OK. It's a good ceiling."

"Yes it is."

Sherlock suddenly started snoring lightly. John lay next to him holding his breath and he let go of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock wriggled a bit, opened his eyes for a second, then settled back to sleep again. John waited until he was certain that Sherlock was asleep, contemplated going to his own room, then fell asleep too.

**Day One**

John woke early to find Sherlock looking at him.

"Oh. Sorry, I meant to go back to my own bed," he said, rubbing his face.

"My hand hurts," Sherlock replied.

"OK." John checked the time. "I've got a wealth of medication for you. Come on." He heaved himself out of bed and headed to the kitchen and he clicked the kettle on with a sigh. He headed into the living room to retrieve Sherlock's medication, jumped out of his skin, screamed and swore.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"

"I was waiting to see my brother. I didn't like to disturb you, you seemed quite deeply asleep." He smiled a cold smile.

John turned as Sherlock walked through and sat down on his armchair.

"I'm not interested in you, Mycroft." Sherlock said. "I'm only interested in painkillers. Go away."

"I'll go and make you some breakfast, Sherlock," John said.

"It's come to my attention that you've severed your left index finger," Mycroft said.

"Go away."

"How did this happen?"

"Go away."

"You're not a clumsy man, Sherlock. You highly trained in the use of all sorts of knives and other weapons. What were you doing?"

"Seriously, Mycroft, go away."

"I've made an appointment for you to see a specialist this afternoon. It's unfortunate that he wasn't able to see you immediately…"

"I don't need to see another doctor, it's already been reattached. Go away!"

"Are you certain that your account of the incident was true? Was this wound really self-inflicted?"

"What?"

"You aren't covering up the actions of anyone else? Perhaps someone who's career and reputation might be harmed if it came to light they had inflicted such an injury?"

John came back in. "Here you go, tea and toast. I'll give you two some privacy."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because otherwise I might accidentally kill your brother."

"Oh, definitely stay then."

"No, it would look bad on my CV, and you know how I worry about that sort of thing."

Sherlock gave him a half smile and watched him climb the stairs. He turned to Mycroft.

"Get out."

"Sherlock…"

"No, I mean it, get out and never _ever_ come back!"

Mycroft stood and sighed. "I'll be in touch," he said.

**Day Two**

"Are you OK in there?" John called through the bathroom door.

"Fine!"

"You're keeping your bandage dry?"

"Yes!"

John was almost certain of it. He'd wrapped it tightly in cling film and tape before Sherlock got in the bath, slightly suspicious that otherwise Sherlock would dunk it just so that John would be forced to redress it.

"John?" Sherlock called.

"Mm? What is it?"

"Can you ask Mrs Hudson to come up?"

"Mrs Hudson? Why?"

"I can't wash my hair with one hand."

"Oh. Why didn't you just ask me to do it?"

"Because you pack severed digits in ice. You don't wash other men's hair."

"You think it's beneath me?"

"Yes."

"Well it's not." He felt mildly touched though, as he went into the bathroom. "I can wash your hair for you, Sherlock."

"I've been asking for a lot today."

"Mm."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. You need to lay off Mrs Hudson a bit though. She's older and more tired than me."

"Did I keep you awake last night?"

"Nope. You can sleep in your own bed tonight though."

"OK." He paused as John poured water over him. "I've been thinking about my violin."

"Mm?" John started shampooing.

"I could restring it. I'd have to turn the bridge around, reorder the strings, move the chin-rest, well, I'd have to get a completely different chin-rest made, but then I could train my right hand to manage the strings and keep the left for bowing. It's not impossible."

"Well, maybe we could keep that as option B. Let's see how the finger works first."

"I can't feel it. Well, it hurts but I can't feel anything beyond that."

"Does the pain extend all the way to the tip?"

"I don't know."

"OK, well, we'll wait and see." He rinsed Sherlock's head. "OK, there you go. If you need anything else, just yell."

"John, where are you going?"

"What?"

"Conditioner!"

"Oh for heaven's sake!"

**Day Three.**

"Can you try to describe the pain for me?"

"It's _painful._"

"Yeah, great. Is it a sharp pain, is it a throbbing pain, a burning pain…?"

Sherlock considered it.

"It's throbbing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes I'm sure! And it's a bit burny."

"And it's definitely a different pain?"

"Yes! It's a new, throbbing, slightly burning pain! That's exactly what it is!"

John sighed. "OK, fine, I'll have a look at it, but I _am_ going to re-bandage it afterwards."

"OK!" Sherlock stood up, looking delighted.

"Sherlock if you're messing me around just so I take off the dressing…"

"I'm not! It's a new, throbbing pain! And of course you should bandage it again afterwards! I wouldn't expect anything else!"

"OK, come into the kitchen then."

Sherlock dutifully sat down on a kitchen chair and John brought out the good first aid kit and prepared what he'd need. He washed his hands thoroughly and put gloves on.

Sherlock watched him slowly unwrap the heavy bandage from his hand.

"I'm going to take the splints off," John told him. "Try hard not to move your fingers if you can help it."

"OK." Sherlock looked like a four year old on Christmas Eve.

The splints came off and most of his hand felt strange and naked without the huge glove. John used tweezers to remove the final dressings from the damaged finger, revealing a clean cut with a line of black, spidery stitches around it.

Sherlock gasped. He used his right index finger to prod the end of it.

"It's completely numb," he told John.

John held the hand up in front of him and examined it closely.

"I can't see any signs of infection," he said. "The blood flow's looking brilliant! It's actually looking very healthy. It's already bonding."

"No," Sherlock whispered. "It's horrible. It's grotesque."

"No, it's not, Sherlock, and I'd expect it to be numb right now."

"I can't move it."

"You shouldn't be trying, you need to give it time."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Really?" John glanced at him and his lips were pale and his jaw was twitching. "Oh hell! Stay still, don't move!" He darted across the kitchen for the bucket and he came back and held it steady while holding Sherlock's bad hand well out of the way.

Sherlock threw up for a while.

"Sorry," he said, when he'd finished. "So that's what it feels like to be squeamish. I never have been before."

"It's sometimes different when it's your own injury you're looking at."

"It's awful. John, I'm not sure I'm glad that they put it back! It doesn't feel like it's mine!"

"It is yours. Calm down now."

"No. It's like some kind of monster finger on my hand."

"A franken-finger?"

Sherlock snorted despite himself. "Can you cover it up again now?"

"Yep, I probably should. Has the new, throbbing pain miraculously gone away?"

Sherlock had the grace to blush slightly. "Sorry."

"To be honest, I wanted to have a look too. You can move it, by the way. You were twitching it good and proper while you were throwing up. There's a nerve working somewhere."

"Really?" He thought about this for a moment. "What if I'm only ever able to move it while I'm vomiting?"

John smiled. "Yeah, let's assume that that's not going to be the case, shall we?" He started to wrap the hand back up again.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

John sighed. "Yes, fine, but tomorrow you absolutely have to sleep in your own bed, OK?"

"OK."

**Day Seven**

"You didn't have to come with me, you know."

"Yes I did. If Dr Lehmbeck is going to give you any kind of exercises, I need to know what they are so I can make sure you're doing them."

Sherlock huffed and started counting the number of people in the waiting room who had had, or were having, affairs.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"She'll take my bandage off, won't she."

"Yes. It'll be fine."

"Mm."

Sherlock's name was called and they followed Dr Lembeck down the corridor and into a clean treatment room. Sherlock sat down on a chair and the doctor put his hand on the treatment table.

"Don't worry about the surroundings," she said, cheerfully. "In future we'll meet in my office, but the first time the bandage comes off I like it to be somewhere clean."

"I redressed it four days ago," John told her.

She peered over her glasses at him. "Well, you did a good job, but I'd have preferred that he came in so that I can do it."

"Sorry."

John shuffled his feet and Sherlock grinned at him. It slid away as she started unwinding the bandage. His right hand grabbed at John's wrist.

John casually glanced around and located the emesis bowls.

As the last wrapping came off, Sherlock looked away. Dr Lehmbeck looked at it closely.

"Oh, very good!" she said. "It's looking beautiful."

Sherlock glanced at it. "Not the word I'd use."

"These stitches can come out now. That'll pretty it up a bit."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked. "It won't just fall off again?"

"No, it's pinned together and it's knitting very well too. The bone is still broken though, so I'm going to put it in another dressing, but you don't need the whole hand wrapped up anymore. Go carefully though, it's still a weak point."

"OK."

She jabbed it with a needle. "Can you feel that?"

"No."

"OK. How about now?" She jabbed it closer to the join.

"No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know whether it's just that I can see it."

"OK. Let's see what movement you've got."

"I can't move it at all!"

He panicked slightly. John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed slightly.

"I'm going to touch each finger with this pen," the doctor told him. "I want you to strike the table with whichever finger I'm touching."

"OK."

She did so and Sherlock drummed with his fingers on the desk. When she tapped his index finger, it went down instinctively.

"Well done!" John murmured.

"Well yes, I can move the whole finger. I can't move the tip though."

"Yes you can, Dr. Lehmbeck said, looking at it closely. You can't see it but I can. Here now, pick up the pen with your thumb and index finger.

Sherlock concentrated and picked up the pen, largely by pushing it against his finger with his thumb.

"It's like it's made out of rubber!" he complained.

"Yes. It might not have the same level of sensation as it did before…"

"It doesn't have any!"

"… but you can move it, and I wouldn't expect that at this point. Sensation might well come along afterwards." She put a stress ball on the table. "Pick up the ball."

Sherlock picked it up with his right hand.

"Don't get funny with me, Mr Holmes."

He picked it up with his left hand. It wasn't strong, but the tip of his index finger did wrap itself slightly around the ball.

"Excellent, Mr Holmes! Whether you believe it or not, you're doing excessively well."

"He always does everything excessively well," John told her.

"Apart from chopping ribs you mean."

**Week three.**

"Don't touch that! It'll be hot!"

"It's fine! I'm using my Franken-finger."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand away from the light bulb.

"Just because you can't feel it doesn't mean it won't get burnt! It is a real finger, you know!"

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes widening. "Ow!" he said.

John frowned.

"No, ow!" Sherlock said looking excited.

John looked at the tip of Sherlock's finger, which was blistering.

"Oh! God!" he pulled Sherlock across the kitchen and shoved his finger under the cold tap.

"Ow!" Sherlock said again, laughing slightly. "It really hurts!"

"Yes. Can I recommend that you don't spend lots of time on trying to make it hurt again?"

"It hurts, John! I'm going to tell Mrs Hudson!"

Sherlock grabbed him before he could leave.

"Mrs Hudson can wait. Let's put a dressing on it first."

**Week five.**

John walked in with several bags of shopping and met Mrs Hudson in the downstairs hallway. She was leaning against the wall and listening to Sherlock as he scraped away on the violin.

"I think he's getting better," she said. "He's not stopping nearly so much as he was and there's been no foot stamping at all.

John smiled at her and made his way upstairs. He went through to the kitchen and quietly started putting things away.

"No," Sherlock said quietly. "No, I said, no! Right, shall we try that particular phrase again?"

"Sherlock, who are you talking to?"

"Franken-finger. He keeps straddling two of the strings at once and I keep telling him not to."

"Right." John walked through.

"I've taped him up a bit and that makes him steadier. He's far from perfect though, but we'll keep practising."

"Just checking, Sherlock, but you do know that your finger doesn't have it's own, separate identity, don't you?"

"Yes of course I do!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sorry." He headed back to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched him leave, then whispered very quietly.

"But we know different, don't we, Frank." He glanced towards John and grinned.


	17. Shot

**I don't really know what happened to me with this one, but it's gone all emotional again. I think it's because I'm tired. I'm probably going to take a couple of days rest and see if I can get back to straight forward comedy after that!**

**Annoyingly, I did think of this chapter, then half an hour later LoverFaery prompted it so now it doesn't look like I thought it up at all! Damned me and my lack of originality!  
**

**I honestly love all the prompts and reviews – they're really getting my brain going! Thank you all! **

Shot

John woke up feeling slightly more lucid than he had for a while. He wondered how long he'd been in his hospital bed. He glanced around and noted with a frown that he was in a private room, and not on a standard NHS ward. He was not in intensive care, and the limited view he could see between the slats in the blinds showed him he was in St Bart's hospital.

He grunted a bit and wondered when it would be breakfast time.

He suffered increasing levels of boredom until nearly eight o'clock when Molly poked her head around the door.

"Oh! You're awake!" she said, sounding pleased.

"Yep. Couple of hours now."

"I thought you might get a bit more with it when they reduced the morphine. How's the pain now?"

"Not too bad. I'm distracted by the hunger though. It'll probably hurt more when they let me eat something and I'm no longer distracted by it."

"Well go steady. I'm pleased you're looking better anyway. I'd better be off now, I'm on shift in a minute but I just wanted to have a look at you."

"OK. See you later Molly.

She disappeared again and he sighed and waited and sighed some more until a nurse came in. After some tricky negotiations, he was allowed to have a cup of tea and a small slice of toast. He didn't query how she was going to make the toast small, he just welcomed it gratefully.

At nine, Lestrade appeared, looking strangely uncomfortable.

He did a lot of nodding and said 'it's nice to see you looking better,' seven times by John's count.

Eventually he checked his watch and said that he really had to go, but he'd see John later. And it was nice to see him looking better.

John nodded and watched him leave.

He sighed a lot more until Mrs Hudson arrived at ten.

"Oh, John, Love! You're looking so much better!"

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson. How long have I been here? What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday, Love, and you've been here since Saturday night."

"OK. That's not bad. How's everything at Baker Street?"

A troubled look flashed over her face for less than a second.

"Oh it's all fine, Doctor. We're bumbling along as usual."

"OK. And is Sherlock treating you kindly?"

"Yes, John. Don't you worry about him."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

She was silent for a while and he watched her.

"Mrs Hudson, if you were to have something such as an apple, or some delicious biscuits in that bag of yours, I'd be exceedingly grateful!"

"Are you allowed to eat yet? What would your doctors say?"

"Mrs Hudson, who is the best doctor that you know?"

"Yes but…"

"No buts about it, I'm hungry, and I deem myself well enough to eat an apple. Or perhaps a slice of cake."

She smiled at him. "I do have a picnic bar. Would that do? I haven't done any baking of late."

"I'll split it with you."

"No, you go ahead and eat it."

She handed it over and he finished it in three bites.

"That's a heck of a lot better," he told her. "Now, what's going on with Sherlock?"

She startled. "Nothing! He's fine!"

"No he's not. Tell me what's going on." She looked at him doubtfully. "Mrs Hudson, if you don't, I'm just going to fret and worry about what you're keeping from me."

She sighed. "I don't know where he is. He just disappeared two days ago. Inspector Lestrade is keeping an eye out."

"If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be found."

"No."

She looked sad and John felt desperately sorry for her. John had often felt that she was the glue that held Sherlock mostly together. He was happy enough to accept his own role in that difficult and largely thankless task, but he knew that given the choice between the two of them, Sherlock would choose Mrs Hudson over him, and a part of him knew that that would be the right choice. Their connection was deep and firm, and though he was itchingly curious about it, he'd never pried or prodded to find out what it was that held them together.

He was happy to accept that she saw him as the desperately wanted son she'd never had, and he was happy to accept that Sherlock would lay down his scrawny, childish, brilliant and complicated life for her.

The idea that Sherlock was too ashamed to be around her was a distressing thought. She was the only source of absolutely unconditional love he'd ever known. The thought that Mrs Hudson was feeling torn between her loyalty to Sherlock while wanting to make John comfortable distressed him too.

"I'm sure he'll show up, Mrs Hudson," John said. "Remember he has got that bad-penny quality to him. Don't worry, I'm sure he's fine. Mycroft could find him even if no-one else could, but maybe it would be best to let him lie for a bit.

She smiled. "I'm sure you're right. Now is there anything else that you need?"

"A couple of books would be good! And maybe a paper or two."

"I'll see what I can find."

The rest of the day was stupidly dull and John found that he was descending into a deep, sarcastic sulk. He was beginning to stew properly when the nurses came around on their evening round and suggested they gave him something to help him sleep.

He took it willingly and early and fell asleep.

He woke up again at some point in the night, and cursed all hospital rooms that didn't have clocks in them. He turned over and noticed a shadowy but familiar silhouette in the doorway. It started to shrink away.

"Sherlock, just before you go, could you pass me that water? I can't reach it and I'm gasping."

Sherlock faltered. He looked at John some more before coming into the room and passing the water glass to him.

"A little bit of eye contact wouldn't go amiss either," John said. He sipped at the water.

Sherlock shrugged and stared at the floor. "If you were thirsty, you could just have rung for a nurse."

"You were there. Mrs Hudson's worried about you."

"She shouldn't be. I'll be going now."

"OK. But first could you tell me if there's a particular reason you feel the need to act as the tragic hero right now?"

Sherlock shuffled and he stuck his jaw out.

"Because," John said, "it's quite annoying."

Sherlock clenched his fists and stared around the room for a moment.

"John, I shot you!"

"Yes, I had noticed that."

"I _shot_ you!"

"Yes."

"I'm going to move out. You should have the flat."

"Oh well that's just great, Sherlock, thank you! Well done! If it's not enough that I've just been shot, now I have to worry about finding another flatmate or a cheaper flat in London! Really helpful of you!"

"I'm not… John, I shot you! I honestly don't know what to do about that!"

"Well an apology would probably be a good place to start."

Sherlock gasped. He looked at John now though.

"What?" John said. "Do you not think it's something that's worth apologising for?"

"No! Of course not! John I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I can't… I keep thinking about it and I can't work out how it happened! I didn't… I didn't see you were going to move there! I'm so sorry!" Sherlock's voice cracked and he struggled to find a breath. "I keep thinking… of all the stupid, _stupid_ things I've done in my life, if I could not do just one of them, this would be it! I'd cut my finger off again! I'd cut a million of my fingers off and everything else too if I could just not have shot you! I'm sorry, John! I'm so sorry! I've never been sorrier!"

"Well, other than a bit of hyperbole in the middle there, that was a good apology. Thank you."

Sherlock gasped for breath and wiped his face with his hand.

"An apology doesn't make you better though, does it," he growled while sniffing

"Time and doctors will make me better, Sherlock. That would be the case no matter who had shot me."

"How are you not angry with me?"

"I am angry with you! Why on Earth did you think I wasn't? I'm not angry because you shot me though, although I do admit to being at the least irritated by that, I'm angry with you because you never bloody listen!"

John watched as Sherlock shuffled and looked guiltily at the floor.

"Sherlock, I have told you over and over that you don't touch my gun. It's not a toy, it's not a game, and despite what you may have seen in films and on the TV, guns are precision weapons, and you need to know what you're doing when you pick one up! If you don't, you will find that innocent bystanders in the vicinity are likely to be hit by any bullets you discharge! Not everyone is automatically a crack-shot! Just because you're brilliant at an awful lot of things, doesn't mean that you'll automatically shoot straight!"

"I thought I had a clear shot!"

"I know! But you didn't! I knew that just watching you! I could see that you didn't!"

"But I…"

"No, Sherlock, no buts about it! You were wrong, and I have warned you about it time and time again. You didn't listen to me, and that's why I'm angry with you."

Sherlock was silent for a long while.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Yes. Good. Now promise me that you won't touch my gun without permission again, and I'll probably forgive you."

"It's at the bottom of the Thames."

"It's what?" John sat up quickly then winced and swore rubbing his side.

"John?" Sherlock's hands were instantly on him, helping him to lie down again.

"Sorry, Sherlock, but, you threw my gun into the Thames?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"Why? Why would you do such a thing? Do you know how hard it is to smuggle guns out of the British Army? And then you just threw it away!"

"I thought it would be better if it was out of my reach. I agree with you, I should never touch it again."

"Yes, _you_ should never touch it! Doesn't mean _I _can't though! You're an idiot!"

"Sorry."

"God damn you, Sherlock!"

"Sorry."

John sighed. "I see you've got into the swing of the apology thing then."

"Yes. Sorry."

John rubbed his eyes and wriggled uncomfortably for a moment. "OK, then clearly you need a replacement penance."

"Penance?"

"Yes. To make up for shooting me."

"Oh." He looked tentatively at John. "Wasn't the apology enough?"

John smiled at him. "I think not. I think on this occasion I need something more. Now, what's it going to be? Certainly I need some entertainment."

"I put you in a private room with a TV!"

"Yeah, and I could just sit around watching the telly, nobody in this room thinks that that's a waste of time at all!"

"What do you want, then?"

"I don't know. Read a book, dance a jig…"

Sherlock grinned. "You want me to dance a jig?"

"Yeah, I'm fairly sure you'd be a good dancer. You can do that later though, there are a couple of other things first."

"Oh. What?"

"Go home. Have a shower, because frankly, Sherlock, you stink, and shave because the bearded look really isn't you. Go downstairs and have breakfast with Mrs Hudson tomorrow morning and apologise to her for making her worry, and eat something, for heaven's sake! After all of that, you can come back here tomorrow and entertain me. I'm bored."

"OK."

"And as much as it might pain you to do so, if you could see your way clear to asking Mycroft how to replace my gun, I'd be grateful for it."

"OK."

"And stop any silly talk about moving out. Just accept that I'm basically better than you and you'll just have to learn to live with it."

"OK."

"And then after all of that, we can decide how you're going to make up for having shot me."


	18. Sprained ankle

Sprained ankle.

The next day.

"All I'm saying is, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be in this hospital bed!"

"You're not in a hospital bed, you're on a hospital chair!"

"That's only because you won't move up!"

"No, it's because you wouldn't fit! Nor do you need to be in a hospital bed!"

"I've broken my ankle!"

"It's slightly sprained!"

"It's no longer working correctly, ergo, broken."

"Sherlock, I am very, very sorry that you mildly hurt your ankle while dancing a jig. If I'd have known about your surplus of left feet, I would never have dreamed of asking you to dance a jig. However, it is only mildly sprained, you don't even need a crutch to walk on it, therefore you're the one who should be nipping to the café for supplies!"

"You broke my ankle!"

"You shot me!"

"God! How long are you going to be going on about that?"

"Probably more than a week, Sherlock. I suspect it'll be fresh in my mind at least until I get out of hospital. Now are you going to go and buy cake or not?"

"I don't know."

"Well please decide soon."

"Do you think if I call Mrs Hudson she'd bring some in to us?

"Probably. If you do, don't forget to ask for sandwiches too. And some biscuits!"

**Oh look, I snuck a 221B in there! Prompted by BlueMoonOnTheRise who asked if we'd ever see Sherlock dance a jig.**

**I feel quite a lot better for having written this!**

**Pip xxx**


	19. The Doctor's Flight

**OK, along with the usual disclaimer of knowing nothing about medicine, I also know nothing about aeroplanes, airline food, and I'm a tiny bit terrified of flying.**

**Anyhow, this one's an odd one. It changed direction mid-way, but I liked where it was going, so carried on. It's long, it might have been worth a stand-alone story, but I'm sticking it here anyway.**

**Thanks for your patience!**

**Pip xxx**

Food Poisoning

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I'm beginning to regret having eaten the fish."

"Hmph!"

"No, I'm not making an aeroplane joke."

John opened his eyes and looked at him. Sherlock was pale and slightly shaky.

"Let me past!" Sherlock said and pushed past John's legs to rush to the small toilet. He looked defeated and returned. "There's someone in there!"

"Well try in economy then. Go and mix with the commoners for a bit."

Sherlock gave him an angry look, but he set of for economy anyway. He was quite quickly back.

"They're full too. Other people seem to have had the fish, damn them! Oh, God!" He covered his mouth.

John stood and pushed him back to his seat. He sat down next to him and rifled through the seat pocket for a sick bag and he held it out.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head.

Sherlock, by the look of you, you might not have much choice. I'll keep a look out for the loo becoming vacant, but hold onto that just in case."

Sherlock accepted defeat and took the bag. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and groaned quietly.

"You're all right, Sherlock, you'll feel better when you've thrown up."

"That doesn't…" He leaned forward and vomited into the bag.

John sighed at him sympathetically and rubbed his back until he'd finished.

"Better now?" he asked as Sherlock sat back again.

"Well that was the most demeaning thing I've ever done!"

"Really? Lucky you."

"Throwing up into a paper bag in a small room full of people. Yes, demeaning." He sniffed. "And in no way lucky."

"Throwing up into a paper bag in the business class section of a very fast aeroplane, while returning from America, where you stayed in a five star hotel, and got paid stupid amounts of money for doing a very small amount of work. Yes. Lucky."

"I'm not in the mood for counting my blessing's right now. What do I do with this?" He held up the bag.

"Give it here. I'll put it in the bin." He headed up to the toilet again and shoved the bag in the bin just outside it. He stayed still for a moment listening to the sounds coming from within.

He knocked on the door. "Sir? Are you OK in there, sir?"

"M'fine!" came the reply before retching resumed.

John headed back to Sherlock and as he was getting there, he noted another woman in Business Class who was also struggling.

"I think I'm going to need another bag," Sherlock mumbled when John got back to his seat.

John went through his own seat pocket until he found another bag and he passed it across.

Sherlock retched painfully and threw up into the bag.

"This is your fault," he grumbled. He threw up again.

"How is this my fault?"

"You should have had the fish."

"That's not logical; technically, you _shouldn't_ have had the fish."

"God I feel ill!" He was sick into the bag again.

"You'll feel better soon. It seems quite violent so it's likely to be short lived."

"Hm."

"Lie back and close your eyes for a bit. I'm going to chat with the cabin crew."

"Why?"

"Because there's an outbreak of food poisoning on their plane and I'd like to offer my assistance."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a doctor."

"You're my doctor. If they want one, they should find their own."

"Sherlock…"

"They haven't even asked for one yet!"

An announcement sounded over the intercom asking if there was a doctor on board, and if so, could they make themselves known to the cabin crew.

Sherlock looked at John.

"Maybe there's another one."

"Sherlock, I need to get more bags and some water for you anyway. I'll be back in a bit." He set off to the small cabin behind the section curtains.

There were three crew there; a boy who looked about eighteen, a red-head in her early twenties who was busy throwing up into a bag, and a more experienced looking woman with short blond hair.

"I'm Doctor John Watson," John said. "I don't think it's too much to worry about, but I thought I'd come down and say hi anyway."

"Oh, thank you!" the blonde woman said.

"Is there any specific person that's worrying you?"

"Yes!" the boy said. "All of them!"

"Well, not massively," the blonde said, "but we'd be grateful if you could have a look at some people, just in case?"

"That's fine. Meanwhile, can you give out water, bags and blankets?"

"Yes, absolutely!"

"Marvellous, right you, sorry…"

"Donna."

"Donna, you start working at that end and work back to here. And you are…?"

"Darren."

"You come with me. And you there?"

"Wendy," the sick woman said.

"I suggest you sit down for a while and drink some water, OK?"

She nodded and he smiled at her.

"Right, that looks like a nice medical bag. I'll have that! Come with me, Darren."

Darren followed John along the business class isle, carrying a crate of bottled water, a pile of blankets. John stopped by the woman he'd spotted earlier. She looked slightly tired and accepted the bottle of water gratefully, but otherwise didn't want any fuss.

John took her pulse, gave her a blanket and left her to sleep.

Next stop was Sherlock.

"You were ages! Sherlock grumbled.

John took his pulse. "I'm here now. Are you still nauseous?"

"Yes."

"Well here, have these bags, and this blanket. Try to keep it clean."

"Why? You're not going to have to clean it."

"Someone will though. Drink this water. I'll be back to check on you in a bit."

"That was it?"

"Yes. There are other people on the plane."

"It's only a small plane."

"It's not that small. Rest for a while now, you'll feel better in a bit." He turned away.

"John!"

John turned back to him.

"What? What do you want?"

"The person in the toilet, he hasn't come out yet."

John frowned. "OK. Thanks. Rest up."

He led Darren straight to the toilets and knocked.

"Sir? Do you need medical assistance?" he called. There was no answer. "Have you got a key?" he asked Darren.

"Er, I think Donna has a master key."

"OK, can you swap places with her?"

"Er, yeah."

"Darren, are you OK, Mate?"

"Yeah. Just… it's my first flight. I thought if I was air crew, I'd get to see the world a bit. So far, it's been cheap hotel rooms and lots of sick."

"Maybe flight two will be better. And if not, there's always the Navy."

"I'm not sure I'm a military type."

John smiled. "I think you'd be surprised. Go and swap with Donna now."

He nodded and headed off along the aisle and John used the opportunity to go through the medical bag. He was pleased that it seemed well stocked and briefly wondered if he'd be able to buy something similar for the flat. His old first aid bag hadn't seemed quite as adequate as it had before he moved in with Sherlock. Donna appeared a couple of minutes later.

"Are you OK?" John asked her.

"Yes, fine."

"Does anyone look like they're in trouble?"

"Only two, there's a young woman who says she's in pain and is sweaty and jumpy, and there's a woman who says she's fine but is looking a bit grey. She has loads of children and a fairly useless husband."

"Have you checked on the pilots?"

"They're fine. Douglas only eats sandwiches from the airport and Martin only eats desert."

"OK, let's get this door open."

Sherlock appeared behind Donna and John winced.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing. I wanted to offer to pick the lock."

"There's no need, go and sit down."

Donna unlocked the toilet door. John deftly put his body between her and the door so that he could get into the toilet first. He was relieved that he hadn't discovered a body. The man on the floor was later middle age, slightly overweight and was blue lipped and panting.

"You OK there, Mate." John asked, squatting in the doorway to look at him.

"Just a bit nauseous," the man whispered.

John smiled. "And how bad's the pain?"

"It's…" he stopped trying to talk and just looked at John, looking both sad and afraid.

John rubbed his shoulder and turned to Carol, "Can you pass me gloves and the stethoscope please?"

She turned to get them but bumped into Sherlock.

"Sherlock! You're in the way!" John snapped. Sherlock went back to his seat and sat down.

Donna found the things John had asked for and handed them to him. He put the gloves on and turned back to the passenger.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Alan Chambers…" he whispered while panting.

"OK, Alan, I'm going to have a quick listen to your heart. Is that OK?"

He nodded slightly. John listened for a moment, then Alan put his hand on John's.

"Heart attack," he whispered.

"I know. It's not your first one, is it?"

There was a slight shake of his head.

"OK, we're going to get you out of here, which doesn't look like the most comfortable place, and we're going to sort you out, OK?"

He nodded and closed his eyes and John turned back to Donna.

"I saw a stretcher."

"Yes, I've never seen it used," she said, looking worried.

"Is there a place where he can lie flat?"

"Er, the stretcher clips onto brackets in the galley."

"Marvellous. I need you to go and get the stretcher, and bring Darren back here. Check on the other passengers, and assuming they're all fine for fifteen minutes, come back with him, if they're not, just do what you can, OK?"

"OK." She vanished.

"Are you on medication?" John asked Alan.

"Aspirin."

"Is that all?"

Alan looked embarrassed for a moment, but shook his head.

"OK, I'm going to inject you with Anistreplase now, then we'll get you out of here and get you some fluids."

Donna and Darren returned with the stretcher just as he finished.

"Marvellous," John said. "Darren, I'm going to get behind Alan here as best I can and I'll steady his head and shoulders. You're going to need to carry him under his pelvis, which probably means holding him close to his arse, which nobody here's going to be embarrassed about. Donna, can you guide his feet and legs out of the loo?"

Darren and Donna both nodded and he carefully stepped over Alan as best as he could, and wedged himself in the corner behind Alan's head. He nodded at Darren and clearly trying hard to obey the embarrassment embargo, he leant over and took hold of Alan.

"Right, on three. Darren, mind your back, OK, one, two, three."

They all lifted gently and carefully and got Alan from the angled position he was in to mostly out of the toilet and lying flat.

"And down," John said. "Gently there. Donna, have the stretcher ready to slide beneath Alan when we lift next."

He counted again, and when they lifted, Donna slid the stretcher into position.

"Well done everyone. Right, Darren, can you take the feet end?"

"Yes."

They both extended the handles on the stretcher and got ready to lift it.

John rolled his eyes. "Darren, bend your legs and lift from there, not your back. You'll be a cripple by the time you're twenty if you don't!"

Darren grinned and bent his legs. John counted again and they lifted, and with a few muttered curses as they had to manoeuvre through small areas and tight corners. As they passed Sherlock, John nodded an apology. Sherlock frowned but nodded back. They slowly got Alan to the galley, and Donna followed them with the bag. She hurried to get the brackets ready and Alan was clipped into place.

"Excellent, good work!" John said. "Right, you get back to your patients, Darren, and Donna, you stay and help with Alan.

"I can help," Sherlock said from the doorway.

John glanced at him. "Sherlock, I'm working here."

He gathered various needles and tubes from the bag, and got them ready on a worktop. He washed his hands in the galley sink, and, used a hand cleanser from the bag, and put on fresh gloves. Very carefully, he drove the cannula needle into Alan's arm, inserted the tube and hung up a bag of saline on a convenient clip above the stretcher brackets. He took an oxygen mask from the bag and slipped it over his head.

He turned to Sherlock. "You're still here."

"Yes"

John sighed. "I really haven't got the time to spare for you right now."

"No. Sorry. Look, I feel much better now. You were right, violent but short lived."

"That's good to know."

"So if you need any help, I'm available."

"OK." John nodded at him. He covered Alan with a blanket and patted his arm. "I'm going to let you have a rest now, Alan, and Sherlock here's going to keep an eye on you for a second."

He pulled Donna away slightly.

"I need to you to get in touch with the airport and let them know we'll need an ambulance waiting for the plane." She nodded and darted off.

He walked back through the galley, nodded at Sherlock who was watching Alan intently, and then he headed through to economy to check in with Darren.

He walked along the aisle with him, and was pleased to see that most people were pretty well recovered. There were several who were particularly worrying though and Darren steered him towards them. The first was a woman in her early twenties who was sweating and sobbing, while her partner next to her rubbed her arm and sobbed along with her.

"I still feel really sick!" she wailed.

John took the stethoscope out again and listened to her racing heart.

"Are you going to fix her?" her boyfriend barked at John.

"Yes I am, and there's really nothing here for either of you to worry about."

"We'll be suing the airline you know!"

"Yes, but let's focus on the immediate shall we?" John stood and took Darren slightly aside. "Is there an area we can move her to? I'd like to keep an eye on her."

Darren's eyes widened. "Oh god! Is she really ill? I thought it was just panic!"

"It is just panic, but I'd like to move her somewhere to calm down. This environment won't help the panic and panic can be a problem."

"Er, I'll have to ask Donna."

"Donna's busy; you have to make a decision."

Darren straightened up and nodded. "We're not at capacity. I'll move the passengers from the front two rows."

"Good man." He went back to the sick woman. "Right, what's your name?"

"Skyler."

"Skyler, I'm Doctor Watson, I've been practising medicine for the best part of twenty years, and I'm going to take care of you. Young Darren's going to move you to a more private bit of the aeroplane, and I'm going to find you some medicine to make you more comfortable. OK?"

She nodded.

"Will it be first class? Can I come too?" Her partner asked.

"At this point, no," John told him and he scowled. "Sir, at the moment we need to move anyone who's still sick, so that we can keep them together, but we need space to work. Don't worry, I'll take good care of Skyler."

"Fine. OK then."

He nodded to them and made his way back to the rear of the plane where there was a family looking utterly miserable. The mother was looking particularly listless, and she was holding on to a toddler who was snuggled tightly to her.

"Right then, I'm Doctor Watson," John told her. "Can you tell me what's happening with you?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled. "Can you check the kids first? Rory's not great, he's behind, and Lizzy here's been sick too."

"You all had the fish?"

"Three of us did, Jack and Toby had the chicken."

"OK." He had a quick look at a pale looking boy sitting next to his father. He looked miserable but otherwise fine. The girl sitting next to her mother looked similarly well.

"Right, who's Toby?" An older boy raised his hand. "Process of elimination means that you're Jack," he said to the father. Another nod. "OK, and have you all drunk all of your water?"

Lizzy and Rory nodded wanly.

"Mum hasn't though," Toby said quickly. "Rory spilled his so she gave him hers."

"OK." He smiled at the Mum. "What's your name?"

"Carol."

"Carol, I think you need a drink and a bit of a rest, and then you'll be fine. Can you come along with me please? I reckon Jack and Toby can do a good job looking after everyone else for half an hour, don't you?"

"Go, Love," Jack said quickly.

"No, Leon can't be left." She caught her husband's look. "You know he can't!"

"And Leon's this wee one?" John asked and she nodded.

"He's a bit clingy and it's all strange for him on the plane."

John made a split second decision. "OK, let's have Leon along with us. He can help look after Mum. Come on now."

She nodded and went with him to the front of the section. Darren had done a good job clearing the front rows and Skyler was already there. Carol sank down onto a seat at the other side of the aisle. John added to those two an elderly woman who was quietly nervous that the vomiting had upset her diabetes, and a youngish man who hadn't stopped being sick and had become a laughing stock among his mates.

John settled them all down with Darren and carried on through to the galley and had a quick look at Alan. Donna was back too and she quickly told him that an ambulance would be on stand-by. He nodded at her and took a sedative out of the bag.

"I'll be back in two seconds," he told them. He ducked back through to Darren and gave Skyler the sedative and instructed Darren to make sure she and the rest of his little ward drank plenty of water.

He headed back to Alan and listened to his heart again. He looked at his fingertips and moved the mask so they could talk.

"How's the pain now, Alan?"

"It's a little better, thank you, Doctor."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. Now how is it really?"

"It's pretty bad. It's hurting."

"OK, if I give you a bit more of the Anistreplase do you promise not to cut yourself shaving and bleed out?"

Alan gave a small smile and nodded.

"That's your lot though, I can't give you any more, so if you could kindly get squash that clot I'd be grateful. And when you get out of hospital, you have to take your real prescription and not just the asprin."

Alan looked guilty again.

"Are you struggling with the prescription charge?"

"No," he whispered. "It's my Anna. Doesn't worry with just aspirin."

"I see. Well I think she'd worry less if she knew your doctor's taking good care of you."

Alan nodded again. "Sorry," he whispered.

"OK, don't talk now. Save your breath." John slipped the oxygen mask back up and he turned to Donna.

"Are you OK with him for a bit?"

"Yes, of course!"

"OK, well I need a drink."

"Oh! Of course! I'll open duty free!"

John smiled. "No, just water and a ten minute sit down. I'll be back shortly."

"I'd like some biscuits!" Sherlock announced.

Donna handed them water and biscuits and the two of them went to sit down for a while. John leaned back and closed his eyes.

"If that was me," Sherlock said through a mouthful of biscuit, "you'd be tearing strips off me for not taking my medication."

"Yeah, well you're my friend, my colleague and my flatmate and I want to know you're taking care of yourself. I have a very small, specific relationship with Alan. Basically I just have to keep him alive until the plane lands, and then he's out of my life. I'm stuck with you for the long term."

Sherlock smiled and let John sit quietly for a few minutes. Precisely ten minutes later, he opened his eyes, finished his water and stood up.

"You should stay here and rest a bit," he said to Sherlock.

"I'm fine now, really. I drank a bottle of water and ate some biscuits and that's all staying put, and I don't even feel queasy anymore." He smiled at John. "Can I help? I want to help."

John looked at him for a moment before he nodded. "OK, do exactly what I tell you, and don't say anything to anyone unless you know for absolute certain that I wouldn't disapprove of what you're saying, OK?"

"You make it sound like I…"

"No, Sherlock, I mean it. If you want to help, be quick, be quiet, OK?"

"OK."

John nodded at him. "Let's check on Alan, wash up as best we can and go and see how Darren's doing.

Alan was showing no change and John fretted and smiled for a while, then left him to it and walked through to Darren with Sherlock following with the first aid bag. He started with the panicking woman. She was sleeping soundly and without waking her he took her pulse and listened to her heart.

"She's fine now," he told Darren. "Let her sleep, you don't need to watch her so closely anymore."

Darren nodded.

"Unless you really want to that is," John said.

The boy gave him a tiny smile and wrinkled his nose. "She's not really my type to be honest."

John grinned back. "OK, let's see the othesr."

The sick stag was doing much better since being removed from the rest of his party and he was calm and drinking happily. The diabetic was similarly more cheerful and had managed to eat a packet of biscuits. John dismissed them both back to their friends and family.

Carol was still looking exhausted and frail and John asked her to stay with Darren for the rest of the flight and Darren was instructed to supply her with large amounts of sweet tea and biscuits. Leon looked overjoyed by the prospect and he snuggled onto her lap.

"I think he knows I'm not well, poor poppet," Carol murmured. "And the plane's bothering him, he screamed blue murder on take-off."

"That was you?" John asked him. "I could hear you all the way at the front! Those are some good lungs you've got!" He ruffled his hair and smiled at Carol. "How old is he?"

"Two and a half. More now, he'll be three in February."

"Well you look after your Mum there, Leon," John said. "And you rest up, OK, Carol?"

She smiled and nodded.

John worked his way along the rest of the plane, checking on everyone and chatting with some of them. Most looked slightly shell-shocked, but tiredly better.

"Looks like I missed out on all the fun!" Sherlock said as they got to the end.

"Oh, Sherlock! Why would you jinx it all like that?"

"What?"

"When you're a doctor, you never _ever_ say such a thing! Hell, I still think I cased all of this by fleetingly thinking, that I'd never been called on by cabin crew on a flight yet."

"Well that's just stupid. You didn't cook the fish!"

"Yeah, I know."

"You're far too superstitious, John."

"Yeah, I know that too."

"Doctor Watson? John?"

John looked up at Darren who rushed up to them and was looking mildly worried.

"Is it Carol?"

"No. It's the little boy actually. He's just been sick everywhere and he's looking a bit… not right."

"OK, let's have a look at him."

John followed him back to the little holding area. Carol was mopping up Leon following a fresh tide of vomit.

"Hey there, Leon," John said. "What's going on with you then?" He calmly ran his hand over Leon's head and gently held his eyes open to look at them.

"Do you want a bit of water?" he asked and handed up a bottle.

"He's not good at drinking from bottles," Carol said.

"Can you see if you can find a straw, Darren?"

He nodded and disappeared. John tried with the bottle anyway and was gratified to see that Leon swallowed it eagerly. It was only for a second though, as he instantly threw it straight back up again, mostly onto the blanket he was wrapped in.

John helped Carol strip it from him. "Pass me another," he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed another from a pile by Darren's chair and handed it across.

"I'm going to put this seat flat," he said to Carol. "Are you going to be OK by the window there?"

She nodded and shuffled back. John gently took Leon from her and put him on the empty chair on top of the blanket. He whined and wriggled.

"I'm going to let you go back to Mummy in just a second, Leon." John smiled at Carol and she reached over to stroke his head. "Let's take this top off now, shall we?" He deftly stripped the now soaking wet t-shirt from him and revealed a three inch scar on his chest.

"He's had heart surgery?" John asked.

"Yeah, he was born with a hole in the heart. They didn't need to operate straight away, but then he got ill so…" Carol broke off and cried for a while.

"Is he on medication now?"

"No."

"When was the surgery?"

"Er, over a year ago. He's been fine! He's been so well! We wanted to take them all to Disneyland to celebrate!"

"OK. Sherlock, pass me the stethoscope."

Sherlock placed it into his hand and he warmed the end slightly before listening to Leon's heart.

"Has he had any fevers or illnesses while you were away?"

"No, I don't think so. Wait, he said he had a tummy ache yesterday. Actually, now you've said it, he's quite hot now! I thought it was just being on the plane making him warm!"

"No, he's got quite a high fever."

"Oh God! What's wrong with him? Please say it's not his heart! I don't want to do it all again! I can't…" She stopped talking and just sobbed.

"It's OK, you don't need to worry, we're working it out. It might well be a random infection and something that's easily fixed. OK there Leon?"

Leon stared listlessly at John. He started to vomit again and John lifted him slightly so he could manage. He started breathing hard and his eyes rolled back. Sherlock's eyes widened and he swore. John gave him a warning look.

"Sorry," Sherlock said to Carol. "I haven't seen a child do that before. He has though, he's a very, very good doctor. Leon's going to be OK."

"Sherlock, Get me new gloves ready," John said.

Sherlock looked in the neatly organised first aid bag and found a pack of gloves which he opened for John.

John stripped his old ones off, used more hand gel on his hands and put the new gloves on.

"Glove up too," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock found his hands were shaking slightly as he cleaned them and worked the gloves on.

John had helped himself to various bits of kit from the bag and he looked at Sherlock and Carol.

"Right, I need to cannulise. His blood pressure is going down quickly, and his temperature up so we need to get some fluids into him. The problem is, there were only two cannulas in the bag, they're both adult size, and I've used one already. I need you to both be very still and I'm going to ask Sherlock to hold Leon's arm steady, OK? Let's see if we can get this done quickly and easily, shall we?"

They both nodded and Sherlock gently but firmly held Leon's arm still. John had him cannulised in seconds and Sherlock fought the impulse to cheer. He kept Leon steady while John attached saline to the tube.

Leon's eyes flickered open again.

"Hello, Little Man," John said to him, smiling. "You're back with us then?" He checked the fluid bag was flowing freely. "Guess what, my friend Sherlock here is going to be your drip stand!"

Leon settled to a grizzle and started wriggling. John quickly taped the cannula into place and wrapped a quick bandage around it.

"Now Leon, Mummy said you had a little tummy ache yesterday. Is that right?" Leon nodded. "Can you point to where the tummy ache was?"

Leon pulled at his ear.

John nodded. "There's a good boy."

"He's got an earache?" Carol asked. "I didn't know! I thought he just had a bit of wind! He didn't hardly complain!"

"No, sometimes children don't, and Leon's more accustomed to pain than most. Look, it's gone untreated and he's dehydrated a bit too. I'm going to give him a spot of penicillin now and I'd recommend that he's kept in for observation over-night."

"Doctor Watson," Donna said, arriving as if from nowhere, "Mr Chambers is making funny noises and I can't…" she sniffed.

Darren was behind her. "I've got a straw!"

"Thanks, Darren. Donna, I'll be right there," John said calmly. He calculated the right amount of amoxicillin for a child Leon's age, erring on the side of caution because he couldn't weigh him. He calmly and deftly injected it, and Leon only writhed a little bit. Sherlock stroked Leon's forehead for a while and he settled again.

"Right, you'll be fine here for a minute, won't you?" John said to Sherlock. He didn't give time for an answer. "If you need anything, hoot like an owl or something."

And then John was gone, taking Darren with him. Sherlock stood there with the bag of saline, the sick child, and the sobbing mother, fretting that he didn't know how to hoot like an owl. It was only for a second though, as he realised the John probably didn't want to say 'Scream and shout like an idiot until I come back' in front of Carol.

He smiled at her briefly.

She wiped her eyes and put her feet onto the chair to hug her knees.

"It never goes away," she said. "You think that you're over the shock of nearly losing them, then every time they're a bit ill, it all comes back…"

Sherlock stared at her. He was deafened by his own silence.

"I think it's probably very hard," he said.

She shook her head. "I just want him to be a normal little boy! It's probably why he's so ill from the ear infection isn't it? Because he was so ill last year! I just want him to be normal!"

"No, you don't want normal," Sherlock said. "Normal is dull. You want a strong, little fighter like Leon. He's just testing and trying himself now for when he conquers the world at eighteen."

She laughed through her tears.

"Of course, my other kids are normal."

"Oh." He fought for the correct response. "I'm sorry to hear it. You have my sympathies."

Fortunately she laughed again. She seemed much more cheerful now that Leon was looking slightly more normal. She wiped her face properly and started chatting quietly with Leon, and took over the 'stroking his head' duty for which Sherlock was relieved. He perched on the arm of the neighbouring chair and held the saline bag.

He was looking substantially brighter when John came back fifteen minutes later, and even waved his un-cannulised hand at him.

"Hello there, Leon! How are you doing now? Did your drip stand behave himself?"

"Yes, thank you, Doctor Watson," Carol answered. "Leon's like a different boy! It's amazing the things you can do, isn't it!"

"Yes it is. Look, we're coming in to land in about half an hour. There's an ambulance waiting for you, and I've asked for a car to take your family to a hotel too. Sherlock, I'll take over here, you go and sit down again."

"I'm fine here."

"I know," John said. "But I'll take over anyway. Thanks for your help."

John looked quickly away and Sherlock handed the bag over to him. As he walked back to his seat he walked past Donna, crying in her seat in the tiny galley, Darren desperately trying to neaten the cupboard, and the body of Alan Chambers under a blanket on the stretcher. He slowed for a moment, wondering if he should go back to be with John, but he decided against. He went forward, sat down and shut his eyes.

The landing was remarkably smooth and Sherlock was grateful for it. The passengers were all instructed to wait in their seats until Leon was taken into an ambulance. Of course Sherlock disobeyed slightly and wandered back to find John handing over to a paramedic. Leon's father was there too, and the three older children watched on looking exhausted. Before they all left, Carol came forward and gave Sherlock a huge hug.

"Thank you so much for all your help!" she said.

She was hot and sweaty and smelled mildly of sick and Sherlock wished she'd just go. She was forced to as the Paramedics carried Leon off the plane and Darren led the rest of the family to their waiting car.

John sagged slightly as he watched them leave.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Oh, yes. Just a bit tired." He looked at Sherlock. "You didn't think to get our hand luggage then?"

"No."

"Well let's go and do that then. Actually, you go. I'm just going to check in with Donna and Darren."

"Why?"

"Sherlock, you go and get the hand luggage and think about why I might want to have a chat with them now."

"Sorry. Yes. I'll see you in a minute."

John wasn't long, and they were still rummaging through the lockers when an announcement sounded over the intercom, thanking people for flying with them and apologising for the inconvenience experienced regarding the airline food. John and Sherlock shrugged and smiled as they heard a number of muttered curses. The announcement went on to thank Doctor John Watson for all of his assistance during the flight, and as a show of gratitude, he would be given this small gift by the airline.

Wendy appeared with a bottle of exceedingly good Scotch which she held out to John. Sherlock briefly assumed that John would protest and refuse, but in fact he took it readily and quickly put it inside his backpack. He muttered quiet thanks and smiled at her before she scurried away.

"Let's go and get the luggage. I can't face the tube back to Baker Street. Do you want to go halves on a cab?"

"Yes. Fine."

An hour later and they'd finally been reunited with their luggage and were settled into the cab. John sat back and closed his eyes with a smile.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked again.

"Hm? Yeah, fine. Only no, not really, but I will be once I'm back home, in the bath safe in the knowledge that there's a nice scotch waiting for me when I get out. How about you, how's the tum?"

"Fine. I feel absolutely fine. Hungry even."

"Good."

"You look like you need a holiday," Sherlock said.

John looked at him. "No, Sherlock. This is the look of a man who needs to go to his home, and to never leave the safety of its confines ever again!"

"That boy Darren took a real shine to you."

"Mm, I know. He gave me his number before I left the plane."

Sherlock guffawed. "Oh the poor child!"

"Actually I was thinking of calling him."

Sherlock's face froze. "What?"

"Not for _that_. He just looked like he needed a bit of gentle steering to get himself on track."

"Oh. Right. Yes I'm sure the need for some fatherly advice is the exact reason he gave you his number.

"The reason he gave me his number is irrelevant. He's a nice kid, I'd like to stay in touch, I have the means to do so." He closed his eyes again.

"Maybe I should train as a doctor," Sherlock said.

John opened his eyes and looked across at him.

"Yes, you're right," Sherlock said to him. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever uttered aloud."

John grinned and shut his eyes again.


	20. Insomnia

**Oh no! It's gone all fluffy again (I don't mind really, I quite like a bit of fluff here and there).**

**This one prompted by Crazykids121 asking for flashbacks and nightmares, a little bit also by LoverFeary who suggested a run-down John from exhaustion.**

**And from a number of people who have desperately pleaded for 'more sick John'. I'm trying, but he's just so damned calm and reasonable when he's ill!**

Insomnia

The second he felt the bullet hit, John yelled, leapt up and charged away. He was half way across his room before he woke up. He stood still for a while listening to his pulse throb in his ears, trying to steady his breathing and waiting for the dizzying nausea to end.

He stared at the dressing gown on the back of his door for a while, letting the sounds and smells of London to sufficiently calm him, and when he felt that he was fully at home again, he cursed. He did so quietly, even though Sherlock was an entire floor away and would clearly already know he'd woken up again.

He turned to check the time and cursed again. The clock brightly shone out 03:21 in a cheery red colour.

The last time he remembered checking, it had read 02:29. He'd had around 40 minutes sleep.

He rubbed his face a bit, wiped his nose on his hand, sniffed, and went to sit at his desk. He glanced at his bed, allowed himself to have the very grown up thought that he ought to at least _try_ to get some more sleep, before he had the much more reasonable though of 'sod that, I'm not lying awake in that bed for another second!', picked up his book and started to read.

He sighed regularly as he ploughed through the novel. It was technically a good, well written book, but he'd chosen it as he found it colourless and dull and he desperately hoped it would eventually put him to sleep. It didn't. Unfortunately it didn't capture his imagination or transport him to another reality and he regularly found that instead of staring at the words, he was staring at the dirt on his window, thinking of milk and groceries, or cases, or his sudden and complete inability to sleep properly.

The issues that Sherlock had with sleep were many and varied but they were also completely predictable, and most of the time, they were also entertaining. Sherlock refused to sleep during a case and at first John had assumed that he had a similar relationship to sleep as he did to food. In fact he'd trained himself into having an extremely efficient off-switch. When he chose to sleep he did so regularly, and as long as he was not working he would simply choose to sleep, at pretty much any time and in any place. After a case, his preference was a several hour nap on the sofa as a first sleep, and this wouldn't affect his ability to go to sleep in his bed at a normal time.

Sherlock's sleep wasn't without its problems though. Well, perhaps not problems, as much as _interestings_. Without fail, during the first proper, in bed, sleep after a case, Sherlock would sleepwalk. And regularly he would sleep-talk too. John had been concerned, the first time it happened, when suddenly a six-foot detective was storming around the house demanding to know where the snails were. He was quite vehement. There were snails, the snails were clearly John's responsibility, and the snails were currently missing. It didn't take the whole of his not unsubstantial skill to know whose fault it was that the snails couldn't be found.

The problem was, at the time John wasn't even sure Sherlock was sleep-walking. He was clear and deeply intelligent, he was forceful in his movements and with his words, he gave the impression of complete and utter integrity, and for a few minutes John began to doubt himself and wonder whether he had been given some snails and he'd just blocked out the event.

After a few months, John had relaxed into it a bit. He now looked forward to it. Though he came across as forceful and self-assured, Sherlock was also strangely pliable when challenged in his sleep. John had found that he could win even ridiculous arguments (he had Sherlock on tape agreeing that black chess pieces were always heavier than the white ones, which is why black always, always won). Through the power of suggestion he once made Sherlock clean the fridge out. On one occasion he made Sherlock make a fruit cake, which would have been a marvellous feat had Sherlock not woken up half way through and made John feel thoroughly guilty for abusing his ailment.

But at least Sherlock was predictable.

Sherlock was predictable to the level at which he could say, quite frankly, in true Sherlock fashion 'I'll be sleeping in your bed for the next few nights', and John had simply accepted it. That was following the only case John could remember where Sherlock's nerve seemed to fail him slightly. John didn't pry into the parts of the case that he'd missed, but they'd shaken Sherlock out of his usual calm, self-confident state. He'd slept with John for three nights, waking regularly but going to sleep again easily. Three nights later he'd returned to his own bed without any fuss or concern.

Until six days ago, John had thought he was predictable too. He'd have nightmares and sleeplessness if he was bored, and not if he was entertained, happy, relaxed, and generally comfortable. He had no clue what had happened seven nights ago to shake him out of this routine. He wasn't particularly bored, he wasn't particularly upset. There had been no event or anniversary, no contact from distant but difficult relatives, there had been nothing. It was as if his body had simply forgotten how to sleep one day.

Every time he drifted off, he'd be woken an hour or two later sweating, heart racing and nauseous from a nightmare. Sometimes he didn't even remember the dream.

He had even worked on a case with Sherlock this week, following him around heavily, slowly and stupidly. He knew that Sherlock's patience had been tested by his sudden lack of coordination. On the other hand, the time they were standing on the tube and John was lulled by the heat and movement and he'd fallen forward, half asleep, and hit his head on the window, he thought he'd noticed a tiny hint of concern in Sherlock's otherwise exasperated expression.

The case hadn't helped him sleep.

He noticed his head was falling forward again now, and his nose was about two inches away from the page. He fell into bed again and checked the clock. 05:47. He closed his eyes and fell into a shallow sleep.

The machine gun tearing through the cinema shocked him and he leapt and rolled behind a barrier, and woke up again. He found himself on his bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling of his room, while the road drill in the distance started its day's work.

He pulled himself up and checked the clock. It was eight thirty. He decided that if he wasn't going to get any more sleep, he might as well start on the caffeine. He pulled himself up, his leg and shoulder aching dully and he staggered towards the stairs. He missed his footing half way down and slid, flailed and staggered down the bottom six, landing somewhat gracelessly in a heap at the bottom with another hearty curse.

Sherlock clearly decided that ignoring that particular noise would be downright silly and he appeared through the kitchen door and looked at John, at the stairs, then at John again.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

John tested himself and found that there were some pulled and jarred muscles, but nothing worse than that.

"Yep. Fine." He put his hand up and Sherlock took it and pulled him up.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Why don't you just sleep in my bed for a few nights?"

John sighed.

"That doesn't work for normal adults, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged again.

"Coffee?"

"Please."

He sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, holding it up. He drank his coffee and ate the toast that miraculously appeared in front of him, and closed his eyes. His elbows slid suddenly and he hit his chin on the table.

He looked up at Sherlock frowning at him.

"Why don't you take some pills or something?"

"Because…" John tried to work out why. "I think that it's probably better for my body if it can learn to sleep without pills."

Sherlock grunted and nodded his head. John stood and went into the lounge where he collapsed onto the sofa.

"Do you mind if I practise?" Sherlock asked, nodding at the violin.

"No, fine. Knock yourself out."

Sherlock tuned up and started playing a deep, soothing melody. John vaguely recognised parts of it but assumed it was one of Sherlock's own variations. It put John in mind of the poppy fields in Afghanistan. He remembered traveling through one with Miller and Hammersley while a mother and her two young daughters, they couldn't have been more than ten and twelve, ranted at them desperately in a language none of them particularly understood. The soldier's desperate and calm repetition of the few words they knew, 'please slow down, please calm down' were not effective. They got to the little house at the other end of the field and the small wooden porch at the front was covered in blood.

He ground his hands into his eyes to shake the picture. The melody changed. It became something more flamboyant and faster. There was an Italian flare to it too, and he thought of Debbie in Venice as she told him calmly and clearly that she really did love John, and the ring was really pretty, but there was someone else, and maybe if he could just wait for a while, perhaps things wouldn't work out and she'd be available again…

His hands clenched and the melody changed. It was more modern now and reminded John of London and walking the streets with Sherlock. He suddenly felt less tense and he vaguely felt himself drifting off. He noticed and the thought woke him up with a jolt.

He sighed.

"I can see what you're trying to do, but I don't think it's going to work this time," he said.

"Well it was until you thought about it! Stop thinking about it!"

"It's not good. I'm going to get dressed and go to the supermarket."

"Fine. Whatever."

John traipsed around the supermarket in a daze. On the fourth occasion he called Sherlock to ask if they'd run out of something, Sherlock snapped and yelled down the phone for three minutes. John hung up and stared at it wondering if Sherlock had told him whether they were out of toothpaste or not.

He trudged home, read the newspapers, read a bit more of the dull, dull book, pootled about on the internet, and at around seven he felt the now familiar knot of dread that he would have to go to bed at some point.

At eight, Sherlock got up, stretched and announced he was going for a walk.

"Do you want to come?" he asked.

"You're doing what?"

"I'm going for a walk. It's a pleasant evening, I thought I'd take advantage of that. Why don't you come with me? Get the blood circulating a bit."

"And when we get back were you going to make me a hot toddy or something?"

Sherlock flushed very faintly. "I don't know, I hadn't decided."

John sighed again.

"Might as well try it I suppose."

They walked around Regent's Park for a little over an hour talking about nothing in particular. They were on the way home when Sherlock brought the subject up directly.

"What do you think has caused it?"

"I don't know! I've been thinking about it over and over and I just can't think of any particular thing that's changed! I think I just got stuck in this endless cycle of having nightmares, then dreading nightmares, so going to bed stressed and uncomfortable, so having nightmares. It's a lot of fun; you should try it some time."

"Mm. Well I find that sleeping with someone else in the room puts paid to the worst of my nightmares. It seems to sooth my subconscious if I can hear someone else breathing and moving and I'm slightly aware of their presence."

"Well, like I said, that doesn't work for normal adults."

"I'm not suggesting we do anything. Just sleep."

"I know you're not! But still, it's just… _weird._"

"Yes, _normal_ adults never share a bed. It's _weird._ All the couples of the world have single beds only."

"The difference is, Sherlock, the very real and massively huge difference between all the couples of the world, and you and me, is that they're _couples_ and we're not."

"Why not? There are two of us; we like each other, we're regularly together both at home and at work. Just how couply do you want us to be?"

John walked along silently for a while, his eyebrows raised to somewhere around his hairline.

"Well?" Sherlock asked as they reached the doorstep.

"What?" John asked, before he shook his head slightly. "Oh! Yes, the couple thing. Yeah, no, we're not one."

Sherlock opened the door and they took their conversation off the public street.

"And I asked why not."

"Oh, yeah. Well the basic difference, and I suspect that you already know this, is that we're not a couple because I don't want to have sex with you, and you don't want to have sex with me. Therefore, not a couple."

"Hm."

"Hm?"

"Just, hm."

"Fine. Whatever. I bought some camomile tea. Did you want one?"

"I think I can manage a normal tea. I'm capable of getting my seven hours a night."

"Show off."

Sherlock smirked and went into the living room.

John went to bed at eleven. He argued to himself that he might as well give sleep as much chance as he could. He hadn't consumed any caffeine since mid-afternoon and he had the piercing headache right between the eyes to prove it. He'd changed his bedclothes, just in case his subconscious had taken a disliking to them. He put on clean, but old and familiar pyjamas. He got into bed and waited.

He waited some more.

He tossed and turned for a while.

He got angry in a very brief but intense way.

He started to drift off but found his muscles suddenly and inexplicably tensed and jolted him awake before he could reach deep sleep.

The third time that happened, he gave up and sat up in bed with his feet on the floor. The clock cheerfully told him it was quarter past one.

He shook his head, grabbed a couple of pillows and went downstairs. He walked through the kitchen and stood outside Sherlock's room for a minute or so. Eventually he opened the door very quietly and walked across the room feeling utterly ridiculous but utterly desperate.

Though he walked quietly across the room, Sherlock shifted and moved up for him before he'd reached the bed. He put his pillows down and settled onto the mattress thinking that if his body was able to sleep with this amount of tension in it, he'd give up his medical degree and any belief that he knew anything at all about the human body.

He lay still for a moment.

Sherlock rolled over and flung half the duvet over him.

"Fine, but you're sleeping in your own bed tomorrow," he muttered.

John stayed quiet and still, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock went back to sleep and John listened to his breathing as it settled into low, rhythmic breaths, just too quiet to be called a snore.

John relaxed was asleep within seconds.


	21. An uncommon cold

**Another one that I'd started writing all by myself before someone prompted it when I was half way through! Thanks very much to TotallyT3ii3 for prompting though!**

An Uncommon Cold

Sherlock dragged his feet as he walked through the bedroom and living room to throw himself down on the sofa. He tried to sniff, but couldn't so he coughed a bit instead.

John was sitting on Sherlock's armchair enjoying a newspaper in the winter sunshine. He glanced up at him.

"Good morning!"

"Doh it's dot. I don't veel well."

"Yes. I guess that that cold you were wittering about has come on then."

Sherlock tried to sniff again but just made a snorting noise and coughed again.

"I veel horrible."

"Yes, you've got a cold."

"Can you vix it?"

"A common cold? No, I'm not that good a doctor."

"It's dot a common cold. It's ad udusual and evil one."

"It's a _cold._"

"That's what you said last time, then I god pneumonia, and dearly died!"

"You didn't nearly die! The situation was continually within my control!"

"I dearly died."

John sighed and put his paper down. He wandered over and put his hand on Sherlock's forehead briefly.

"You're fine. There's no fever, you don't have an infection, you have a common cold."

"It's dot common! And you should-dud take my temberature like that!"

"Why not?"

"It's dot scientivic."

"You haven't got a fever." He went back to his paper.

"You don't doh that though!"

"You're between 36.9 and 37.2 degrees."

"You don't _doh_ that though!"

"I do. You don't. You should learn to trust me."

"Ged me your thermomeder."

"No. I'll get you some tea, some paracetamol and some water."

He headed into the kitchen and was surprised that Sherlock followed him and started rooting through a drawer in the kitchen. He held up an ancient glass thermometer and defiantly put it under his tongue at John.

"Fine," John said. "You'll have to keep your mouth shut for a minute with that one though."

Sherlock shrugged and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Which will be nice," John said, leaning against the counter. "Because I'll get a minute's break from the whining."

Sherlock glared.

"Oh god, it's just occurred to me that you're probably going to spend the next four days whining and complaining about how you hate everything."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and his lip curled a half smile.

"Only now you'll be doing it with a blocked nose."

Sherlock gasped and dropped the thermometer.

"That's not vair! I'm dot that whiny dormally!"

"Yeah you are. And you'll have to start the minute all over again now." He made the tea and handed one cup over to Sherlock.

"Can't you just use your quig one?"

John sighed again but went to get his own, modern, ear-canal thermometer he put it briefly in Sherlock's ear. When it beeped, he showed him the display.

"There you go, 37 degrees exactly. You've got a common cold, you'll feel better soon. Drink fluids." He filled a glass with water and put it on the table next to Sherlock's tea.

"It's dot a common cold! It's a horrible cold!"

"It's a _cold_, Sherlock. Right, I'm going to the supermarket, do you want anything?"

"Death."

"Full fat or semi-skimmed?"

"Berhaps some chiggen soup. People give that to sig people don't they? Well, _dice_ people I mean."

"Actually that's an idea. I could make you my famous, common cold curing, miracle-medicine, chicken soup. I haven't made it since I was abroad though, so I have to do my best to remember how to make it." He stared at the wall, mentally going through a list of ingredients.

"Johd," Sherlock said, watching him.

"Mm?"

"Are you going to boison me?"

John rolled his eyes and headed out.

Several hours later, the smell of cooking spices and coconut wafted through the air, causing everyone with the power of smell to salivate and their stomachs to growl desperately.

Sherlock, however, was oblivious to this as he lay on the sofa wishing ill on all the people in the world, and for good measure, wishing death to the World too. He was surrounded by a large number of snotty tissues and several empty cups of tea.

John popped his head around the kitchen divide.

"It's nearly read… Sherlock! There's a bin less than two feet from you!"

"So?"

"So throw your used tissues away!"

"Why?"

"Because you're being disgusting! You have a _cold_! That's all! You don't have to stop having the graces of polite humanity for the duration."

"It's dot a cold."

"Clean up, and then come in for some food," John ordered.

Sherlock thought about disobeying, but he decided he was too hungry to risk it. He pulled himself up and with a sigh and started piling the tissues into the bin. One was stuck to the sofa quite unpleasantly and he grimaced as he peeled it off. He thought that perhaps, _perhaps_, John had a point.

He made his way through to the kitchen.

"Bring tissues! You'll need them!" John called.

Sherlock sighed and grumbled as he went back to retrieve the box of tissues. He came back and sat at the table, and watched John ladle quantities of white, chicken soup from a steaming vat, into two, large bowls. He dropped some rice noodles into each one and passed a bowl to Sherlock with a spoon.

"Oh, you might want some milk with it."

"Milg? Why?"

"I'll get some just in case."

Sherlock tried to sniff the soup but was unsuccessful. He prodded some of the floating parts with his spoon.

"What's id this?"

"Chicken, baby corn, sugar snaps, rice noodles, coconut milk, and a number of herbs and spices that I won't share with you."

"Is this widgy medicid, Johd?"

"No. It's not witchy medicine! It's not medicine at all! It's perfectly normal food, that might be of some benefit to someone with a cold. Now eat it."

John picked up his spoon and started eating hungrily.

Sherlock watched for a moment, and then ate a small spoonful of the broth. He went slightly red and opened his eyes widely. They started watering.

"Oh, there's a bit of chilli in it," John told him, still eating.

Sherlock swallowed painfully.

"How buch chilli's in it?"

"A bit. Quite a bit, I like it hot. Come on now, eat it. It'll do you the world of good."

He continued eating. After a moment he looked at Sherlock.

"Do you want me to dampen yours down with some Crème Fraiche?"

"Doh! I'm just as cabable of eating as you!"

"Oh good. A competition."

John went back to his food. After a moment, Sherlock picked up his spoon too and started to eat. He managed another couple of spoonfuls before he had to stop and wipe the sweat from his brow. He also blew his nose.

"Are you sure you're OK with the heat?" John asked him.

"No, it's fine." He looked up startled. "I can breathe again! Marvellous, mmmmarvellous."

"Jolly good."

Sherlock went back to his food. After a few mouthfuls he had to wipe his face again. He had a mouthful of the milk.

"I'm more than happy to put the crème fraiche in yours," John said.

"No, I'm fine. Fine," he said hoarsely. "Actually, now my nose isn't blocked, it tastes quite nice too. You know, behind the heat."

"Good. I'll make it again one day."

"Well, you don't need to. I mean, you've worked hard today so you shouldn't..." He looked at his soup again. "It's certainly unblocked my nose."

"Yep. It'll do that."

Sherlock ate a bit more before he needed to stop again.

"It's a bit warm in here. I'll just take my dressing gown off."

"OK. Good. I need some more I think. Did you want more?"

Sherlock looked at his half full bowl and John's empty one.

"No, I can do it!" He wiped his eyes again and ploughed through his meal. His lips were bright red by this point, and the rest of his face wasn't that much paler and John wondered for a moment if he'd overdone it.

He sat and watched Sherlock eat his way, slowly and painfully through the rest of the bowl.

"Thank you!" Sherlock said, looking at him and smiling. "That's actually helped my cold a lot." He blinked for a while and wiped his eyes again.

"Good."

They were disturbed by Lestrade bursting through the door.

"Sherlock, I know you said you were ill, but please, I'm desperate, can I at least run some things by you?"

"No, I'm fine now! I'll come."

"What?"

"I'm fine. John's cured me. I can come out with you right away."

"John's cured the common cold?" He glanced at John who simply smiled at him.

"Yes he has, and it wasn't even just a _common_ one! Let's go."

"No, Sherlock, it's raining, and you're in your pyjamas." He frowned. "And your face is a bit red."

"None of that matters, Lestrade! Come on, let's leave now! Let's go and stand in the rain for a bit, in the nice, nice cool rain."

He leapt up and ran down the stairs.

"Greg, will you do me a favour?" John asked.

"Yeah, sure, anything."

"When he's thoroughly soaking, send him in to get warm and dry again. He can head out with you when he's got his clothes, coat and scarf on."

"Surely will, John. Is that soup?"

"Mm. Do you want some?" John asked innocently.


	22. Witchy Medicine

**Happy Birthday, BlackWolfSong! Have a lovely day tomorrow.**

Witchy Medicine.

"That really isn't going to work!" John called to Sherlock.

Sherlock was walking in increasingly large circles, holding his phone in the air, desperately searching for a spot where he'd get some signal.

They had decided to take a pleasant stroll across the moor some four hours earlier. Two hours ago, John had noted to himself that a lot of the bits of the moorland they were walking over, looked remarkably like all of the other bits of moorland that they had previously walked over. Two hour and ten minutes ago, he noted that there was no signal on his phone. An hour ago, he'd mentally rationed the two Picnic bars, two apples, and one bottle of water that he'd brought with him.

Since then, he'd quietly and steadily tried to guide the two of them back to civilisation.

Unfortunately, about half an hour ago, Sherlock had also noted the similarity of various bits of moorland landscape to other bits of moorland landscape, and this was quite quickly followed by the realisation about his phone. Thus far, this had distracted him sufficiently for him to be untroubled about the food situation, and as yet he wasn't particularly bothered that they were lost either. The lack of instant Internet, however, was causing low-level panic.

"It's got to work sooner or later!" Sherlock insisted. "I fail to believe there's any square mile of England that isn't covered by some mobile phone signal!"

"Do you actually need to use your phone?"

"What do you mean? Of course I do! I always need to use my phone."

"Yes, but I mean, _right now_?"

"If I could access my phone right now, I could get a reliable GPS location, and then we could find our way back to the road."

"So you've noticed we're lost then?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "Of course I've noticed we're lost!"

"Oh." John frowned at him. "You don't seem nearly as bothered as I thought you would be."

Sherlock frowned back. "Bothered? Why would I be bothered? You're here. You'll get us back to civilisation."

He turned away again and started walking slowly forward with his phone in the air.

"How exactly do you think I'm going to do that?" John called after him.

"I don't know. You're _John_. It's what you do. I bet you've even got food and water and have calculated when we should consume it according to our needs."

"Well, I'm touched by your faith in my abilities…"

He broke off as Sherlock stepped forward, stuck his foot down a rabbit hole and fell heavily with a squeal and a curse. John ran to him.

"Are you OK?"

Sherlock was still in a heap on the floor.

"No I'm bloody not! I'm lost in the middle of a _stupid_ moor, my _stupid_ phone has no _stupid _signal, and my _stupid_ flatmate hasn't told me how we're going to get out of this _stupid_ mess!"

"And physically?"

"I've hurt my ankle."

"Well, let's have a look at the ankle at least."

John gently pushed Sherlock over until he was sitting on his bum on the ground. He started brushing the soil off himself with an extremely indignant look on his face.

"What are you doing?" he asked John.

"I'm taking your shoe off."

"Why! It's cold, we're outside; I need my shoes on!"

"I need to see if you've actually hurt your ankle."

"I just told you that I had!"

"Yes, and now I'm seeing what the exact damage is." He gently stripped Sherlock's right sock from his foot and looked closely.

"What do you think you're going to see? The bone's inside! You can't see it without an x-ray machine!"

"No, I can feel it though." He gently took the foot into his hand and very carefully manipulated it around. Sherlock winced and John glanced up at him. "How much does it hurt?"

"Lots!"

"Yes, can you give me a number from one to ten, with…"

"Ten."

"Sherlock!"

"It hurts!"

John sighed. "Does it hurt more or less than that time you hurt it in the hospital."

"Much more, especially considering it was the other ankle I hurt that time!"

"Compare that pain to this. Better or worse?"

"Worse."

"What about when you hurt Frankenfinger – better or worse?"

Sherlock screwed up his face. "Which time?"

"The first time."

"Probably a little better."

"What about the earache that time. Better or worse."

"Oh that was hellish pain, John! That was more pain than you could ever imagine!"

"OK, well I've been shot, twice, once by you, so I doubt that, Sherlock." He continued moving Sherlock's foot around and watching his reactions. "Right, I don't think it's broken, but there does seem to be a pulled tendon and probably a bit of bruising."

"Is that really bad?"

"No. You just need to be careful. I'll help you walk back home."

"How! I clearly can't walk on it!"

"Not easily no, but it will take your weight if you're careful. We'll go slowly and gently."

"But where too? We don't know where we are!"

"We're heading west. I know there's a road to the west, and eventually we're going to come across it. Then we'll walk along it northwards."

"How will we know it's north?"

"Well if we're walking west, we'll be able to work out where north is from that."

"I don't like the word 'if' in that statement."

"I thought you had complete faith in me getting us out of this."

"That was before you hurt my ankle. What are you going to do about that anyway?"

John rubbed his forehead for a bit. "We'll go home, and then I'll arrange an x-ray just in case."

"But what are you going to do right now?" Sherlock persisted.

"Right now? Nothing. There's nothing I can do!"

"Can't I at least have paracetamol?"

"I don't have any. Do you?"

"How do you not have paracetamol? You always carry a massive first aid kit everywhere!"

"But we were just going for a walk!"

"Yes, but we were just going for a walk with _me_!"

"Yes, I agree I should have taken that into consideration. Come on now, let's see if we can get you up."

He put Sherlock's sock and shoe back on and slowly helped him to his feet. With Sherlock's arm securely around John's shoulders, they walked a couple of steps. On the third step Sherlock staggered and fell.

"It's no good!" he whined. "I can't walk! We're going to be here forever! If I walk on it, it might be damaged forever and need amputating! I can't do without a foot, John! I can't possibly have a frankenfoot! It just wouldn't work!"

John looked at him with a frown and he chewed his cheek for a bit. He sighed.

"Well, there is something we could try. You're not going to like it though."

"Why not?" Sherlock sniffed. "What is it?"

"It's witchy medicine… No, don't look like that! As witchy medicine goes, it's not bad. I can make up a rough poultice of white heather if I can find any, and some sheep droppings…"

"No!"

"It's necessary, Sherlock! The minerals in the dung mix with the heather sap and it all sort of decomposes around your ankle and it's a natural painkiller and should take the swelling down a bit. I said you wouldn't like it, and I'm happy to not bother, but we haven't got any other options at the moment. Should we just try to get back in brief steps?"

Sherlock sighed and huffed. "Fine," he said eventually. "Let's try the stupid poultice. It's not going to work though."

"Well we might not have the option anyway. There's loads of pink heather around, but I'm not sure I've seen much white."

"There's sheep droppings anyway. My phone landed in some." He picked it up and with a look of extreme distaste started wiping it down.

"Well I'll go and see what I can find." John scouted around in a wide circle occasionally bending down to closely examine some flowers before shaking his head and moving to the next patch. Eventually he gave a cheerful cry.

"I've found some!" He came back to Sherlock with a large handful of white heather. "Well that was a stroke of luck and no mistake. Right, let's get this all sorted."

Sherlock watched as he used a flat stone to mash the droppings in with the heather, putting a little water on them from his carefully rationed bottle. When he was satisfied he looked up at Sherlock.

"The only way of holding it to your ankle is to shove it down your sock."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Get on with it then."

John wedged it down the sock while Sherlock grimaced.

"OK," John said. "That's not looking too bad. Only time will tell though. How about we give it ten minutes to do its work and eat something."

"Have you got any actual food, or are you going to go foraging for witchy food too?"

"I have actual food, but just so you know, I could quite easily catch and skin a rabbit out here."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'm not going to, because I'd then have to build a fire, something else I _can_ do but don't particularly want to, and then we'd have to wait for it to cook, and there's no need for all of that. You can have this Picnic bar though."

Sherlock took it and ate it looking quite serene.

"The poultice is relaxing you to then," John said.

"Is it meant to do that?"

"It's a side effect some people get."

"Huh. It's feeling quite warm too. Is that normal?"

"Yep. That's all good."

They ate some more, and then John drank half the bottle of water and passed the other half to Sherlock who finished it.

"I hope we get to the road before we need more," Sherlock said.

"Yeah. It would be quite nice to know how far away it is."

"Mm."

They stared at the horizon.

"Wait a minute," John said. "Your phone has GPS."

"Yes. It's not working though."

"It should be! GPS isn't connected to the mobile network! It's satellite fed! If you've got battery on your phone, it should be able to pick up the satellite!"

"It's not though! It's just picking up coordinates. I've got our longitude and latitude, but what's the point of that without a map?" He held up his phone so that John could see the small flashing numbers in the middle of the screen.

"Give it here!" John said, snatching the phone. "Sherlock bloody Holmes, you're an idiot, what are you?"

"What!"

"Seriously!" John zoomed out of the map and scrolled over a few pages. A spidery line appeared on the phone screen.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"That's the bloody road, Sherlock! Of course there's a map there, you just had to find it! Right. Two and a half miles. How's that leg feeling?"

Sherlock took back his phone and stared at it. "Actually, it's feeling quite a lot better. I think the poultice is working." He glanced at John. "Thank you."

"It's fine. Come on though, let's get going. Two and a half miles is perfectly manageable, but we'll be going slowly and it's getting late. I'm keeping the phone." He took it from Sherlock and pocketed it with a look.

He helped Sherlock to his feet and they started slowly walking. Sherlock only needed to lean on John slightly and though he was limping, he didn't fall again. He looked sideways at John.

"In my defence, you didn't think of the GPS either."

"You told me it wasn't working!"

"I'm not used to maps where there's not at least three things on the page."

"You're an idiot. Now save your strength for walking."

oOo

The following day, they were back in Baker Street. Sherlock's badly strained but unbroken ankle was bandaged and was resting on a cushion on the sofa. There was a cup of tea on the coffee table and he was enjoying recounting the story to Lestrade while John updated his blog.

"So John made you up a poultice from just things scattered around?" Lestrade said.

"Yes. It turns out he's a very good doctor."

"Goodness me!" John said. "A compliment!"

"And deservedly so," Sherlock said. "You clearly have a remarkable knowledge of biology and chemistry!"

"Well I am a doctor, Sherlock!"

"Yeah," Greg said. "So what was in this poultice?"

"Sheep dung and white heather," Sherlock answered. "You have to wait a while for the chemicals to combine, but then it has quite efficient pain relief and sedative qualities."

"I've never heard of that one," Lestrade said. "Well done John."

"Yeah. Thanks," John said. There was quiet for a moment and he looked up to find Sherlock's eyes boring into him. "What?"

"Why are you looking like that?" Sherlock asked.

"Looking like what? This is how I look, Sherlock!"

"No. That's how you look when you think you've done something very clever."

John shrugged. "I'm a very clever person. What can I say? Anyone need more drinks?"

"Not for me, John," Lestrade said. "Technically I'm on duty."

"Ah. Hiding from whom?" John asked.

"Donovan, on this occasion."

"John, can you please tell me the exact chemicals involved in the white heather poultice?" Sherlock asked.

"Er, no. So how did you upset the lovely Donovan this time?"

"It's a long story. And suddenly it's not nearly as interesting as the story of the white heather poultice!"

"Oh lord," John muttered.

"John!" Sherlock said, looking thunderous. "John, is it possible… and I'd like to give you the benefit of the doubt here, but is it actually possibly that _you_ had the audacity to give _me_ a placebo?"

John said nothing, but he smiled and looked innocently into the corner of the room.

"Remind me to dust the cobwebs from that corner, will you," he said.

"Sherlock, really?" Lestrade said, laughing. "You really…"

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

John sighed and smiled at him. "The thing is, Sherlock, the very important thing that you need to remember is that even for genius people like you, placebos very often work. We're no longer on the moor, we didn't die and your foot doesn't need amputating. Now, more tea?"

* * *

**Once again, thanks for all the reviews, messages, comments and support! I'm sorry to have left you in the lurch a bit!**

**Basically, I'm super busy at work with boring work stuff, but I'm also super busy at home with exciting writing stuff. Just for the next couple of months I really need to focus on novel No2, certainly if I ever want to break into publishing my own original work in the future. The new one is new characters, new background, and new settings, so it's taking a fair amount of my brain power at the moment! **

**This is all to say, I intend to publish here once a weekend, probably on this fic, possibly on others, so you will see me around, and just to say, thank you for your patience with me!**

**_[sniffs]_ I love you guys!**

**Pip xxx**


	23. Mrs Hudson

**Prompted by the lovely AnnaKeye - Poorly Mrs Hudson.**

Mrs Hudson.

John smiled at Mrs Hudson.

"Now then, I know it's dull, and you know it's dull, but certain people won't trust I've done a proper job if I don't listen to your heart again. Do you mind?"

She smiled as she lay back in her bed. And her eyes glanced to her bedroom door as a tall brooding figure paced past it again.

"No, I don't mind, Doctor. It's very kind of you to be looking after me like this."

"Well, I think you've earned it." He put his stethoscope in his ears, warmed the end in his hands slightly, and listened to her heart through her nightdress. He moved position and closed his eyes to listen carefully.

After a moment, he opened them again and smiled at her.

"Well, you're sounding pretty good to me!"

"That's good."

"Now, do you have everything you need here? Are you sure there's nothing else?"

"I'm sure, Doctor. Thank you."

"Is there anything you want to ask me about your medication?"

"No, I'm fine, John. The doctor at the hospital explained it to me."

"Good. Well if there is anything you're concerned about, you just say, OK? Now you can get up and roam free as much as you want, or you can stay here and I'll bring you breakfast in bed, and tea at hourly intervals through the day."

"Oh I'm fine, John. I don't want any bother. I'm just happy to be out of the hospital again."

"It's no bother. And the buttons that have been installed throughout the flat all ring in my bedroom and the living room upstairs. I want you to absolutely promise me that you'll ring them if you're in any way worried or distressed, or if you just fancy a chat."

"Oh, John!" The figure paused outside her door for a moment before moving on.

"No, it's fine," John told her. "And I can get from my room to yours in a little under half a minute. I know that because someone insisted on timing me as I ran down the stairs five times yesterday."

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

"No, it's fine," he said, grinning. "It really is fine, Mrs Hudson. I want to look after you. You make such a delightful change from my usual patient."

She smiled back and glanced at the door.

"Do you think he'll be OK?" she whispered.

"Who? Him? Yes. Yes I think he'll be completely back to normal in a day or two."

"He looked so frightened, poor love."

"Yes, well don't you go worrying about the poor love. You leave him to me and rest and relax for a bit. I'm sure we'll have you running around like crazy again in a few weeks."

She smiled again. "Thank you, John."

"Right, goodnight then, and I'll see you tomorrow."

He got up, packed up his bag and left. He walked straight into Sherlock just outside of the door.

"Is she OK?" he demanded.

"Yes, she's fine, Sherlock. You can go in and see her if you want."

"Go in? Why?"

John rolled his eyes and left the flat.

Sherlock looked at the door and tentatively and quietly knocked on it.

"You can come in, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson called.

He stepped just inside the doorway and looked at her.

"Are you OK?" he whispered.

"Yes, I'm fine. The doctors at the hospital said I'm fine, and John said I was too, so I believe them."

"OK," he whispered and nodded. He glanced at her again. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No, I'm fine, love."

"OK." He glanced around the room. "Are you sure there's nothing that you need?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm very well set up. Thank you."

"OK. Well, if you're sure, I'll let you go to sleep then."

"I'm sure. Thank you. Good night."

"Good night."

He turned and walked out of the flat.

John was sitting on the sofa upstairs with his head back and his eyes closed. Sherlock stared at him for a moment when he came in.

"Will she be OK?" he asked.

John opened his eyes and looked at him.

"Yes. She needs to rest, but she'll be fine. Put the kettle on will you? It's been a long day."

Sherlock didn't move.

"John, do you think I should move out?"

"What?"

"I mean, I'd keep paying rent here, so she wouldn't have to worry about that, but I wouldn't live here, so… well, she wouldn't have to worry about that either."

"Sherlock! Mrs Hudson loves you! I don't know why, perhaps on some level she's deeply sadistic, but for some reason she does. If you think she'd stop worrying just because you didn't live here then you're a far cry from the genius you keep pretending to be."

"But I'm difficult."

John looked at him, eyebrows raised, utterly exasperated.

"Then just stop being difficult, you clot! Now make me a tea. I'm gasping."

John flopped back on the sofa again and closed his eyes. Sherlock regarded him a moment and then went to make the tea. A few minutes later he came back with it.

"John, I've been thinking," he said, handing the tea over.

"Jolly good." John tasted his tea and grimaced. "Still not the worst I've had."

"I'll keep trying. I was thinking…"

"What?"

"I don't think I can stop being difficult. I do try. Not always, obviously, but sometimes, and it just doesn't work out for me."

"OK. That seems plausible. So what?"

"So will Mrs Hudson be OK?"

John sighed. "She had a heart attack. As these things go, it wasn't terrible, but obviously it wasn't great. Perhaps you might compromise by being slightly less difficult when Mrs Hudson's present. But ultimately, yes, she'll be fine."

"No, I don't do compromise. I consider it dishonest."

"Well, I'm sure you'll work out what your priorities ought to be right now. I'm giving up on the tea and going to bed. I'm knackered."

"Mm. John?"

"Mm?"

"Can I sleep…"

"No! No you can't! I'm flipping knackered, Sherlock! I just want to go to bed and go to sleep!"

"I wasn't suggesting you do anything other than that!"

"I'd like to be comfortable in my own bed and have a tiny ounce of privacy!"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

John heaved himself up, went to brush his teeth and staggered up to bed. He changed into his pyjamas, looked out of his window for a while, and settled down in his bed.

He sighed.

"Sherlock, I know you're out there just waiting for me to fall asleep!"

There was a brief pause before Sherlock opened the door and looked in.

"Oh, you're still awake. Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you, there was just something up here that I needed."

"Oh really. And what was that?"

Sherlock glanced around.

"I just need to look out of the window."

"OK then."

Sherlock quickly walked across the room, glanced out of the window and nodded.

"Great, thanks. Goodnight then."

He headed off again.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes?"

John sighed. "I'm just really tired. You can settle in here if you _really_ need to, but be quiet, OK?"

"OK."

Sherlock got into the bed and lay down on his back next to John. He was quiet and still and John sighed and rolled over to get comfortable and closed his eyes. He had a nice three minutes.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"You won't leave, will you?"

"What?"

"You won't leave. I was just thinking, it might not be such a problem that I'm difficult as long as you're here. I mean, not as much of a problem for Mrs Hudson, not for you. For you, obviously, my being difficult will remain a problem."

John stared at his wardrobe for a while.

"How exactly do you foresee me leaving?" he asked.

"Well you might convince one of those women to marry you at some point. Then you'd leave. I'm just saying, that would be astonishingly selfish of you. It wouldn't be fair to Mrs Hudson at all."

"Right. OK. I'll bear that in mind. Good night now."

"Good night."

John sighed and tried to settle down again. He had another nice two minutes.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"She will be OK, won't she?"

"Mm. Yes. Unlike you. You're about to be smothered to death."

"No, you wouldn't kill me."

"Not when I'm in my right mind, no. Who knows what I'll do when I'm very tired, very worried about an elderly friend, and being denied sleep by the most selfish man in the world."

"Mm. Sorry."

John settled down for a moment. There was a very quiet, quite restrained sigh from Sherlock. John rolled over to look at him.

"OK, Sherlock, she's had a heart attack. Even though it was easily controlled, and even though I've seen worse, it's still a heart attack. She needs to take things easy for a while, but with time and care and medication she _will_ be fine. The thing that's bothering me most at the moment is that she's very scared. She's was seriously ill for a while, she was in a lot of pain and that shocked her. She's finding it hard to shake the memory of that, and she's frightened that she's growing old, while at the same time she doesn't want to be a burden to anyone, and she's worried about how you're reacting to it all. If we're not careful, all of that worry is going to turn into a proper, physical stress, and that's not a good idea right now. I'm not going to tell you she'll never have another one, because it's too early to tell that, but I am honestly hopeful that it was a one off. So if you could just bear with me while I take care of the worry and the stress, that would be good. OK?"

Sherlock nodded. "OK."

"Right. Good."

He settled himself down to sleep again, but then rolled over as Sherlock got out of bed and headed for the door.

"Where are you going now?" John asked.

"I'm fine now. I thought I'd go and sleep in my bed and give you some space. Thank you."

"Oh. OK. Goodnight then."

"Goodnight."

* * *

**Aw. A nice bit of fluffy fluff to end a fairly hideous day.**

**Pip xxx**


	24. Recovery

**Several people have asked for more sick John. The difficulty is that I can imagine him being fairly calm and in control in most situations. That's why he doesn't get to have nice things like a cold.**

Recovery.

John woke fuzzily as the door to his room opened.

"Sherlock?" he said, frowning.

"Hello!" Sherlock whispered. He came right into the room and stood looking at John.

"What's the matter?" John asked. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here to look after you, of course."

"Oh god! Why?" John looked mildly panicked.

"That's not very kind!"

"No really, why?"

"Because I'm nice."

"No you're not."

"Well I'm being nice now, OK?"

John sighed and lay back. "Whatever. I'm too tired to argue. Just be quiet OK."

"It's fine, I brought a book." He took a paperback out of his coat pocket, shrugged his coat off, flung it over the back of the visitor's chair and sat down to read.

"Comfy?" John asked.

"Yes, thank you. Is there likely to be a tea trolley around soon?"

"No. I've had my breakfast."

"Did you save me any?"

"No." John shut his eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said. "You look a bit stressed."

"I'm not stressed."

"Well you look stressed."

"Sherlock, I had major surgery yesterday. I didn't get much sleep, and I'm in a fair amount of pain, so any time you'd like to shut up, that would be just fine with me."

"Has the doctor been around yet?"

"No."

"Well I hope he's soon. You don't look at all right and you're usually a lot nicer than this."

"Shut up."

"That's exactly my point."

Sherlock tried to get settled into his book for a while. He noticed that John was fidgety. He couldn't move his leg very far, but the rest of him was tense and jumpy. He kept rubbing his face and head.

It was very distracting, and Sherlock wondered if he should mention it, but he decided that it was the sort of thing that Mrs Hudson would disapprove of.

They were both disturbed a few minutes later as the doctor knocked and came into the room.

"Good morning, John," he said.

"Hello, Pete."

Pete glanced across at Sherlock who had risen and come over to the bed.

"Sorry, Pete, this is Sherlock. He's a friend."

"Partner," Sherlock corrected.

"_Colleague_," John said.

"Pleased to meet you, Sherlock." Pete said, shaking his hand and smiling.

Sherlock did not return the smile.

"What's wrong with John? Did you get the biopsy results back? He's quite clearly in pain and I suspect he's had very little sleep."

Pete looked at John.

"Sherlock," John said, "Would you like to wait outside?"

"No, I'm fine thank you."

John sighed. "Sorry, Pete, I do what I can, but he's barely housetrained."

"It's fine. And Steph's also told me you had a bad night, so I came here armed with morphine and the will to persuade you into taking it."

"Oh, do I have to?"

"Technically no. In real terms, yes. I don't like you not sleeping, it's not helpful to your recovery and you know that full well."

"I like your doctor," Sherlock said.

John wiped his face again. Sherlock and Pete both noticed his hand shaking as he did so. John noticed them noticing.

"OK. Fine," he said. "On your heads be it."

Pete smiled and uncapped the syringe he'd brought in with him.

"Wait," Sherlock said. "What about the test results? Have you got them?"

"Not yet," Pete said. "I will bring them here as soon as I've got them. The main thing now is to sleep if you can." He glanced at Sherlock who was looking slightly manic. "I meant John then, but you look as though you could use a bit of sleep too."

"Can I have morphine too?"

"No." He injected John who grimaced and looked away.

"I don't like your doctor anymore," Sherlock said.

Pete smiled. "John, I'd like to check your wound. Is that OK?"

"Yeah. Fine. Sherlock, really, you might like to leave."

"Hardly. I'm not squeamish!"

"You threw up when you first saw franken-finger."

"That was different. That was me."

John sighed. "You might give me a bit of privacy," he complained. "But you're not going to, are you."

"No."

"Fine. Stay. Do your worst, Pete."

Pete gently pulled John's blanket aside, and discretely raised his hospital gown to reveal the wound, a large hole in John's thigh, complete with plastic tubing, stitches and a fair amount of blood. John's blood. Sherlock was suddenly aware he was staring, and he knew, on an aloof, logical level, that the staring was quite rude, and possibly a little unnerving to John. Not least because the wound that had attracted his attention was high on the inside of John's thigh. On an emotional level, he found he couldn't look away from it. It wasn't as tidy as he'd expected. It seemed a ghastly thing to be there.

"Sherlock!"

He could hear John calling in the distance but he couldn't look away. Nor could he breathe.

"Sherlock! Sit down!"

Sherlock was just able to do so as black shadows swam across his vision. He didn't lose consciousness entirely, but he had to fight the faint quite hard for a moment. He was aware of Pete's hand on his head holding it to his knees. He shook it off.

"Deep breaths, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock obeyed. After a second he looked up and looked at the other two who were looking quite amused.

"I'm not squeamish," he said.

"No. Course not," John said. "You're being very helpful, by the way. Thanks."

Pete carefully checked the wound as Sherlock looked steadily at the door. He nodded, satisfied and looked up at John.

"It's looking OK at the moment. It's draining well. I'm going to keep you like that for another 24 hours. OK?"

John nodded tiredly.

"I'll let you sleep now. If you need anything at all, call a nurse. Daphne's on today, you can ask her to call me. OK?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Try and nap. I'll wake you as soon as there's news."

John smiled a goodbye and closed his eyes again.

"You don't need to call for a nurse," Sherlock told him. "I'm here to help. I can help."

"Mm. Help with silence just now, would you?"

"OK. Fine."

Within a few minutes John had fallen asleep. Sherlock tried to read his book again.

It was a modern who-done-it and within seconds he realised that it had been a mistake to bring it. Ten minutes later he threw it across the room. John stirred and Sherlock guiltily and quietly went to retrieve it. Half an hour later, he threw it again. This time John didn't respond at all, but Sherlock was pretty much immediately bored. He retrieved it again. An hour later, he finished it and sighed loudly.

John writhed for a moment and sighed too. Sherlock glanced at him but he stayed asleep. His breathing had turned strange though, and he writhed again and Sherlock frowned, worried that he was starting to have a nightmare.

John suddenly gurgled and coughed up a small fountain of vomit. Sherlock swore, surprised, then as John half woke and tried to sit up it occurred to him to get up to help somehow.

He couldn't do much, and he couldn't reach the nice cardboard bowl on the other side of the bed, but he propped John upright as he was sick onto his blanket. After a moment, John stopped and settled. He also woke fully and Sherlock laughed at the mortified expression on his face. He pressed the call button for a nurse. John covered his face with his hands.

"OK now?" Sherlock asked.

John quietly swore.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. That was really quite impressive."

John moved his hands to try to wipe them on a clean bit of blanket and he shook his head.

"Could you call for a nurse?"

"I have. Come on, let's get this blanket off you." He didn't give John time to answer as he stripped the blanket from the bed.

A nurse stuck her head around the door. "Everything OK?" she asked.

"We're going to need a new blanket, please," Sherlock said. He looked at John. "And a clean sheet and a clean gown too."

She glanced at John, nodded, and left.

"Well you were certainly thorough," Sherlock said, smiling.

John pulled a face and shook his head. He tried to wipe his face a bit and sniffed.

"I'll get you tissues or something," Sherlock said. He nipped into the en-suite bathroom and failing to find a wash-cloth he soaked a corner of a towel under the hot tap. He took it back in and was alarmed to see John was actually crying. He held the towel out for him.

John took it and washed his face and neck.

Sherlock pulled the ties on the back of his gown loose and started to take it off him.

"Can we just wait for the nurse?" John mumbled.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, stopping again.

John coughed quietly.

"Have some water," Sherlock said, rushing to pour him a glass.

"Thanks." John drank some and handed it back. "You shouldn't be here," he said. "You can't handle this sort of thing."

"No. I can't," Sherlock said. John looked on the brink of weeping again. "Look, it's fine, I couldn't handle being in the house either. Plus Mrs Hudson shouted at me."

John snorted. "Why? What did you do?"

"I don't know. I was me, and then there was shouting. I'm blaming you. I think she's worried."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"We're all worried. But…" he broke off as the nurse and an assistant came into the room.

"Sorry," John said. "I made a mess. I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," the nurse said. "You know it's fine, Doctor Watson. We haven't met yet, but I'm Daphne, this is Luke."

"I'm sorry…" he breathed deeply again. "…er."

Daphne quickly handed him a bowl and rubbed his back and uttered soothing things as he was sick. Sherlock watched her intently.

"OK now?" she asked, handing John water.

He nodded and wiped his face on the damp towel again.

"Right, then let's get this bed changed. Let's get that gown too."

Sherlock turned away to give John a little privacy. He watched them in the reflection in the window. John watched him watching. The two nurses impressively stripped the sheet from the bed and replaced it without disturbing John too much. He winced a couple of times though.

"Do you need more morphine?" Sherlock asked him.

"No. I think the morphine's causing the problem," John said. He sighed.

Luke gathered up the soiled things and left with them.

"Right, that's all better," Daphne said. "I'll be back in a second with a cup of tea for you, Doctor Watson. You look like you could do with one."

"Thank you," John said.

"I could get you tea if you want one," Sherlock said when she'd left.

"God I hate being this useless!" John said, angrily. "Please will you just go away! I just can't…" And then he stopped talking and started crying again.

Sherlock watched him, frowning. His frown deepened as John didn't stop, nor he didn't even try to. He just sniffed and sobbed for a while. Sherlock shuffled his feet and looked out of the window for a moment. He walked back to the bed.

"They should put tissues in these rooms," he said to John.

John sighed and wiped his eyes on his hand.

"They usually do. Look in the cupboard there."

Sherlock did and found tissues and a neat stack of emesis bowls. He glanced up at John.

"If I put a pile of bowls out, will you take it as a personal slight?"

John snorted. "No, I'd see it as you giving a rare display of common sense."

"Good," he handed John a tissue and put the rest of the box next to him.

Daphne came in with tea. She left it with a sympathetic smile.

"Did the crying help at all?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled and shook his head. "No, not really."

"Oh. It really unnerved me."

"Yeah, well you cried when you thought you'd lost your finger forever, and I just dealt with it. And I might have..." He trailed off and swallowed.

Sherlock tried hard not to think about what John might have. "You're right. I think you should probably be allowed to cry. Not always, that would be dull and probably quite dehydrating."

"Yes, that's true." John sipped at his tea. "Sorry, you should get back to your book. I'm going to be fit for nothing today."

"I've finished it."

"You don't have to stay. You could just sneak past Mrs Hudson so she doesn't know you're there."

"I want to be here."

"I might cry again."

"I'll take my chances."

"I'm going to hurl again."

"I'll take my chances with… oh, you meant now." He handed him another bowl and propped him vaguely upright. "You'll feel better in a minute," he said quietly and he rubbed his back as John quietly retched.

"What the hell was that?" John asked hoarsely.

"What?"

"You, being all comforting."

"Oh, that." He threw away the bowl. "What do you want? Tea or water?"

"Tea."

"I can be comforting," Sherlock said, giving him the tea.

"I think it's probably as unnerving as me crying." He swallowed some tea but handed it back, shaking his head, reaching for another bowl and he weakly threw up.

"John, you should really stop being sick now!" Sherlock said.

John stopped being sick to look at him.

"Was that better or worse than the comfort?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well, right now it's worked, so better."

Sherlock threw away another bowl.

"OK. More tea?"

John shook his head.

"Well if it was me, you'd tell me I had to drink something, regardless of how stupid that sounded. So, water or tea?"

"Water." He drank some from the glass that Sherlock gave him. "God, it's making me itch now," he said, giving the glass back to Sherock and scratching at his forearms. He leant back and closed his eyes again. "Sherlock, I don't think I can overstate how little I'm enjoying this."

Sherlock nodded, but realised that that was fairly pointless. He put his hand out, but then retracted it again. After a quick glance around the room, he got leaned over the bed and shoved his arms awkwardly around John's neck.

"What are you doing?" John asked, slightly muffled.

"I'm giving you a hug. You sounded like you perhaps wanted one."

"Oh."

"Should I move?"

"In a bit." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and allowed himself a few minutes indulgence of holding on for dear life and hiding his face in someone else's shoulder.

"My back's aching a bit now," Sherlock said eventually, and John released him.

"Thank you," John said.

"You're welcome. Now what do you think you could eat and drink? No, there's no point shaking your head, you'd force me to eat while telling me it was for my own good, so now you have to see how that feels."

John sighed. "Could you get me a coke? That sometimes works if I take some of the gas out of it."

"And to eat."

"No."

"Fine. I'll surprise you then. Lucky you." He headed towards the door.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I just…. Look, whatever happens, whatever they say, I'll deal with it. I'm not doing great today, but that's just the worry and the lack of sleep and the throwing up everywhere. I will cope. You don't need to think that you have to look after me or anything. I'll be fine."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and then he nodded. "Yes, that seems likely." He headed out.

An hour later he was perched on John's bed feeling proud of himself for persuading John to have a small amount of coke and a ginger biscuit. If it was disagreeing with him, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

As Pete came back into the room again, John tensed up again. Sherlock calmly took his hand and squeezed it.

Pete smiled. "Oh, I'm glad you're awake. I wanted to tell you quickly that it was benign."

John whispered a swear and covered his face again.

Sherlock found he couldn't stop grinning. He moved John's hands.

"You're crying again!" Sherlock said.

"Yeah. So are you, so shut up."

Sherlock realised John was right, and he wiped his eyes and grinned again. John wiped his eyes and smiled too. Sherlock reached for one of the tissues.

"Thanks, Pete," John said, clearing his throat. "Thanks for finding me and for finding out so quick. Just… thank you!"

"No problem. I'll leave you two alone for a while now, but I will be back later on this afternoon."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, wiping his nose.

Pete nodded and headed back out.

"I should go and call Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. "And everyone else. And everyone." He wiped his eyes again and laughed. "This is ridiculous! It's all your fault you know! If you'd have been at home I would have slept and then I wouldn't be embarrassing myself and all of this and…" he sighed.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I think I might just need another hug."


	25. Addiction

**Oh, the angst! The angst! I'm sorry, this one's been niggling away at me for a couple of weeks, so I'm just going to give in and write it. There aren't many funnies in here, so you should feel free to skip ahead (when I've written the next one).**

**I have read all the reviews, and will start replying to them in the morning. In the meantime, thank you all.**

Addiction.

John walked slowly to where Sherlock sat, shuddering, on his armchair. It was exactly where Lestrade had dumped him before he'd stormed out of the flat in a haze of silent fury.

John had taken a moment or two to calm down and to decide what to do next. The first, obvious, step was to check that Sherlock was physically fine. While he did that, he'd check that his assumptions were right.

So he walked slowly to the armchair, his heart racing, and he examined Sherlock's head, holding him gently by the hair, checking for knocks and bumps.

"I wasn't attacked," Sherlock said quietly. "I wasn't hurt." He stopped talking and bit his lip.

John nodded, but continued to examine him.

He tipped Sherlock's head back and looked at his eyes. Pupils were predictably dilated, but they were also sluggish and slow.

John let Sherlock's head go and picked up one long, quivering hand. He found Sherlock's pulse, racing and harsh and he counted for a while. Before he let go, he pushed back the sleeve of the long, woollen, coat and found the track marks he was looking for. An ugly bruised area.

Sherlock's gaze didn't stray from the corner of the coffee table but his feet shuffled in his good, black shoes.

John coughed quietly and tried to clear his throat of the painful, restricting, throbbing lump that was lodged there.

He pulled Sherlock gently towards him and he hugged his head closely to his chest.

After a moment, Sherlock's arms tentatively wrapped around John's waist.

If you were to tell John later that he'd cried silently into Sherlock's hair, he wouldn't argue with you.

oOo

John Watson was no stranger to addiction. He'd known it for most of his life, and even before medical school, he'd learned about this particular illness inside and out.

He'd started attending Al-Anon when he was seventeen and his father had finally drunk himself into an early grave. He'd attended every evening for three months. After three months he felt that he understood his position well enough. He still felt he didn't understand his father's though. One day he'd walked past the meeting room and he'd gone instead to the second floor, where he made up a backstory and infiltrated the AA group.

He'd lasted about fifteen minutes before he blew his own cover and broke down and told his story.

He was astonished by the care and compassion he found in the people in that room.

He went back, night after night and quietly watched people try, fail, try again, be proud, be elated, be ashamed, be strong, be weak. He watched as over and over they got up and tried again. He didn't advise, he didn't contribute. They'd let him go in and sit and silently absorb everything night after night after night. He silently shared their victories and their defeats.

It was at these meetings, with these people, rather than in the years and years of Sunday school being preached at by Very Good People, that he'd developed his own hazy, confused understanding about God.

Medical school beckoned and he was surprised at his last meeting, that a small goodbye party had been planned. It was dry, of course, and most people had managed to be sober for it. It was both more enjoyable and more moving than the drunken goodbye party with the kids from school.

He'd learned more about the illness at med school. More about the disease. He'd seen alcoholics come in to hospital for their week of detox. He'd seen some of them come back and come back as their rehabs failed. He'd seen some come in at the end of their lives to die in a heap of pain and indignity. He'd counted the people who left on their own two legs that he never saw again, and he was surprised by the strength of his pride in them.

Years and years later, he'd started attending Al-anon meetings again. It was after a bad episode with Harry and he found, quite unexpectedly, that he was struggling to watch her destroy her life the way their father had destroyed his.

He attended every night for a week before he started re-scripting those thoughts to recognise that his father and his sister were both victims of the same illness. He found he was still scared for Harry, but most of his anger fell away and he left with a resolve to help rather than judge.

When she detoxed and headed off towards rehabilitation, John had continued attending the meetings, and he did so weekly until he was stationed abroad again. He found that with every break he had in the UK, he wanted to check in and find out how people were.

On one long break, Amanda turned up at a meeting. Amanda had been utterly destroyed. A week before, on his last bender, her husband had crashed his car into another one, killing everyone involved.

John recognised in Amanda all the fragmented parts of himself from years before. He'd sat and listened as she expressed her hatred of the man she'd once loved. She's talked about his betrayal and her disappointment. Her anger was almost palpable. He'd listened as she'd sobbed that she hadn't been able to help him. She wished she'd just been stronger, better, someone that he might have been able to give up for. John had felt it all before and he understood exactly where it came from.

Three weeks on, she'd talked about her husband's weakness, his lack of will power. She talked about her image of a huge red button inside him, clearly marked 'PRESS ME!' and even though he knew it brought punishment, he just couldn't bloody leave it alone. He couldn't not touch that button. He was weak-willed.

"It doesn't work that way though," John surprised himself by speaking. Seven pairs of eyes looked at him and the eighth tried to stare him down in anger and disgust.

"I know the button that you're talking about," John had said, driven to continue. "I agree it's there. I agree that to me, to you, to people who aren't addicts, the sign clearly says 'Press Me', and we learn that it really says 'Do not touch'. What seems to happen is that the illness, the addiction, the alcoholism, it plays with that sign. You and me can see 'do not touch', or 'press me', but to the addict, it says 'you can't leave the house unless you press the button,' or 'you can't survive this dinner party unless you press the button', or 'you can't get out of bed without pressing the button.' It pulls and pulls at them. The real evil of it is, after the first drink, and the second, it gets worse. The sign still says 'do not touch' but all the addict can see is 'they're all against you unless you press the button'. It says 'your life will end right now unless you press this button'. The level of terror they feel about what might happen if they don't press the button, and if they don't the pain and the sweating and the racing heart makes them feel they were right all along..."

He stopped and glanced around the room. "Sorry. I'm only talking about my own experience here, but that's what it seems like to me. I consider myself lucky, because I'm not an addict. My red-button says 'press me' and it continues to say that even after a drink or two. In fact, I think mine reads 'have a drink, have some fun, stop when you've had enough'." He smiled. "There have been occasions when I've been scarily tempted or stuck in a habit and even then I've known that I can over-ride the button and its call and I've been in control. I've never been an addict. If I was, if the addiction was playing with my brain to that extent, I don't know I'd be strong enough to ignore that sign that insisted I had to drink. And it's not just the first day or week either; it never goes away. You can never think 'it's been nine years, I'm cured now'. Nine years or twelve years or twenty years on, you still have to override that sign, every single day. I'm not sure I could do that. I'm not sure I could."

He'd stopped talking then and the meeting had moved on. Amanda had come back though, and they'd continued to talk, first in arguments and later just about their days and anecdotes from their pasts.

They were still in touch, years on. She was married again to someone who wasn't an addict, and she was expecting their first child. She'd expressed concern when he'd moved in with Sherlock and John had listened carefully to her concerns.

Her letters were still a highlight in each month.

John's opinion of addiction had changed and bent and had been set firm over the course of time, but he still held firm to the belief that an addict _couldn't_ be cured. Every time he met one who had been sober or dry or clean for months or years he was bowled over with the knowledge of just what an effort that must have taken.

That was why today he held onto Sherlock's head while he wept into his hair.

oOo

Sherlock wasn't sure what had caused it after so many years.

He hadn't been traumatised, he hadn't been overly bored, there had been no loss, no change in routine, hell, there hadn't even been a change in the weather which continued to have all the variety that you'd expect in a British summer.

He was vaguely aware that about a month ago he'd wondered, as a conscious thought rather than an idle daydream, whether he'd be able to use cocaine again in a controlled, measured way. When he'd started out it had certainly been in a controlled, measured way and he'd always intended to go back to that kind of usage at some point.

He hadn't, mostly because the strength and speed of his addiction had startled him.

But now he was wondering again.

He decided it would be a pretty stupid thing to risk trying it.

The niggle had continued across a number of weeks. It had been relatively easy to scratch, but it had come back sometimes several times over the course of a day.

In retrospect, he realised that it had been a mistake not to mention this to someone else. Lestrade would have understood and tried to help, probably by being annoyingly present for a few days. Mycroft would have locked him in a room somewhere. John would have… well, John would probably have done something. In retrospect, he hated himself most for not trusting John more with this.

But he'd been stupid and he hadn't mentioned anything to anyone. He'd just continued to over-ride the niggle as it happened each day or each hour.

The annoying thing about being a generally grumpy and snappish sod, is that other people can't easily tell whether this behaviour is because you're a generally grumpy and snappish sod, or whether it is something else altogether.

After a few weeks, he realised that he was obsessing over it, and that the one way of finding out whether he was strong enough for just one needle, was to experiment.

He'd gone out. He'd found a new dealer. He'd formed a tentative relationship. After all, cocaine in a solution was something of a rarity these days, and he needed to be sure they knew what they were doing. He'd discussed his needs and the following evening he'd found him again and come away with his one needleful.

It had felt somehow wrong to administer inside the flat, what with Mrs Hudson and John and their sensibilities, so he'd gone to a slightly dirty public toilet in Oxford Circus. It was a distasteful place, but he didn't want to make his experience overly pleasant. It felt as though he was taking a precaution and he was proud of himself for that.

He injected. He waited for a response. He enjoyed it. He was happy to stop at one and he went home pleased that he'd answered the question.

John hadn't even noticed and he was proud of himself for that too.

The following day he realised that the experiment was useless if it was just going to be a one off. Of course it would be easy to take one needle and then nothing. The _real_ challenge would be to see if he could have just one for several days, but just one, and then stop.

He went back to his dealer.

On the fifth day, the dealer mentioned that he'd made up a bottleful of the solution should Sherlock prefer to buy in bulk. He offered him a discount.

Sherlock came away with the bottleful.

By this time he knew that John was on to something. He hadn't been explicit or accusatory. He'd been concerned and he had been since day two. Sherlock decided to put the bottle away until things had calmed down a bit.

A case came in and they had blessed, blessed distraction for two days.

The day after that, John had gone out and Sherlock couldn't work out where. He wasn't sure if it was just a trip to the supermarket, or whether he was out to lunch, or whether he was working a random hospital shift.

He'd taken his bottle out of his sock-drawer, and taken it to a little place under a bridge that he knew. He told himself he'd stop at three needles.

He wasn't sure how long he was there, and he wasn't sure why he'd chosen to go to Lestrade, but he thought he might be able to tell him about his racing heart. He wasn't sure about precisely what he'd intended to do on getting to Scotland Yard, and he wasn't sure how he'd found himself in the board-room. He wasn't really sure what he'd said when he got there.

He knew that Lestrade was angry when he'd dragged him from the room and he'd been aware of the shouting as he was driven home, listening to his pulse throb in his ears.

He vaguely picked up on the fact that Lestrade hadn't told John what had happened.

He knew that John knew anyway.

He couldn't remember ever having felt so ashamed before.

He was confused as his head was enveloped in John's arms. He wondered what precisely he'd done to earn such compassion.

He was held for a long, long time while John's tears traced through his hair.

John pulled away and Sherlock looked at him and he was shocked silent.

He had expected anger, or hurt, or some level of discomfort or confusion. He might even have understood if John had felt somehow responsible. He'd have expected anything but this. John's face was concern, sympathy and pity. And fear.

In a split second, Sherlock realised that he never wanted John Watson to look at him that way again.

oOo

Sherlock didn't ask John to stay with him that night. He didn't think he deserved such attention.

He was relieved and grateful when John turned up anyway, carrying his own pillows and commanding him to move up and be quiet.

He'd obeyed without question.

He had the predictable nightmares and overheating that he always had after he'd used, and John was there with mumbled, sleepy comfort and glasses of cold water.

They'd slept comparatively late, though John had woken first and stayed in bed, reading a book until Sherlock woke too.

"Good morning," he'd said, looking unfairly bright and alert. "Come on, get up. Let's get started on day one."

Sherlock had followed him to the living room, wondering if it was possible to die from gratitude.


	26. Deaf

**First of all, thanks so much for the comments on the last chapter. I have contemplated doing a second chapter of that story, but I'm not sure. I'll have to write it and see how it comes out, but I honestly wanted to say a heartfelt thank you for the way that one was received.**

**This one is on prompts from xImperialGirlx, and Suzanne.**

**I have to admit, at the moment I feel like my brain has been removed and replaced with tapioca pudding, and I'm not convinced that my writing mojo is in the same continent as me right now, so I'm sorry that this one turned out…weird. On a not unrelated note, it turns out it's a bit silly to ignore the physical signs of stress. Usually, I'd wrap that message up in a moralistic chapter where one of the boys experiences stress, but like I say: tapioca brain. I'm OK; I'm resting.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Deaf.

John followed Sherlock along the embankment, pulling his coat closer in the late November cold.

"So where are we going?" he asked.

Sherlock turned to face him. "Timbuktu."

"Uh-huh," John nodded, smiling. "Is it far?"

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. He turned towards a nightclub, glanced up at the sign, which looked dull and dark in the pale sunshine, sniffed once, ducked under the police tape, and went inside.

John followed.

They walked through what seemed to be a fairly bog standard nightclub, looking slightly grim and tawdry in the daylight, and were waved through to the Gents toilet at the back.

Lestrade met them.

"Morning," he said. He looked as though he hadn't had quite enough coffee as yet today.

"Is this her?" Sherlock asked, his eyes gleaming slightly.

Lestrade nodded.

"Yep. Found like that by the bar staff when they came in to restock this morning. They do a walk around to check that the cleaners haven't missed anything."

"Clearly the cleaners had."

"The cubicle was locked from the inside."

Sherlock crouched down to take a closer look at the body. All that John could see from where he was standing was an elegant ankle and foot in black tights, next to a high heeled green shoe.

Lestrade gave John a glance. "I guess this isn't how she thought the evening would go. Poor thing."

John nodded gravely. "Yes. Yes that seems plausible."

Lestrade frowned. "Are you OK?" he asked.

"Er, no thanks. We had breakfast before we came out."

Lestrade practically gaped.

"Don't mind our good doctor, Lestrade," Sherlock said, from where he was crouched looking at the shoe through his magnifying glass. "He's almost completely deaf. He has been for three days but he's refusing to admit it."

Lestrade glanced at John again. John nodded and smiled.

"How did he go deaf?" Lestrade asked.

"He had a bad cold. It's either from that or it's because John is getting very, very old." He sat up and looked at John. "Isn't that so, John?"

"Well yes, I would think so," John said. "It does seem very likely."

"It's been quite good fun," Sherlock said. "John, do you remember how you promised to bring me breakfast in bed for a month?"

John nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I follow you."

"I've got that one on tape," He said with a grin. "And you really are stupidly old fashioned are you not?"

John pulled a face and nodded again. "Well, you know best, Sherlock."

Lestrade shook his head. "Right, so you decided to mock the afflicted. Nice, Sherlock. Lovely."

"What? He'd mock me!"

"Yes, he'd also help you."

"I'm helping him!"

"How?"

"I'm being extremely kind." He sniffed. "Well, for me anyhow."

"Great." Lestrade looked at John. "Why don't you come with me?"

John looked at his watch. "Just coming up to ten."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and pulled him back into the main bar. Where they stood, Lestrade not talking, John occasionally nodding and smiling at him.

Eventually Sherlock came out to join them and the main forensic team headed into the toilets.

"They weren't her shoes," Sherlock said, walking towards the other two.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they weren't her shoes. I think the shoes are important. They usually are, though nobody ever listens when I tell them that. The shoes she's wearing don't match her outfit. On closer inspection, the insoles are prominently marked by a woman with a low arch. The victim's arches were high."

"OK," Lestrade said. John frowned at something and headed towards a section of mirrored wall.

"In addition, the wearer of the shoes was wearing navy blue tights, and not black…" He paused and frowned at John who was looking closely at a section of mirror. "John! Back now!" He yelled.

John reached up and touched the mirror just as the door it was concealing flew open and a man in black charged John down. There was a flash of a blade, but John's training kicked in and he punched the man hard in the side of the neck. He faltered and fell. He wasn't unconscious and he pulled himself up using a table, but Lestrade was on him before he could get anywhere.

"I saw a knife!" Sherlock called to him.

"Drop it!" Lestrade snapped, shaking the man who just swore and struggled. Two uniformed police were already on their way over.

Sherlock spun John around and leaned him against the mirror.

"God, John, what the hell…" His eyes crept downwards and widened as he took in the knife handle protruding form John's waist. "What do I do?" he asked, desperately.

"Don't touch it," John said, catching Sherlock's hand. "Leave it there, call an ambulance." He sounded stupidly calm.

"Shouldn't you lie down or something?"

"Sherlock, I can't hear you. I haven't been able to for the past few days. Sorry. Should have said something." He swayed, but failed to collapse to the floor.

"Should you lie down?" Sherlock asked. When John looked blankly at him, he gestured towards the floor.

"Don't move me if you can help it. I'm fine. I'll be fine right here until the ambulance comes. An ambulance is coming, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's on its way," Lestrade said, coming to join them. He looked at the knife and was silenced.

"Did he just say yes?" John asked Sherlock.

"Yes," he nodded.

"Sherlock, are you crying?" John asked.

"No!" He shook his head and wiped his eyes on his hand.

"It's really not worth crying over, Sherlock," John told him. He swayed again and both Sherlock and Lestrade reached out to hold him up. He blinked and took a breath. "OK, I'm going to need you to lay me down now, very, very carefully."

They nodded and working very quietly together they very, very carefully lowered him to the floor.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked when he was down. John had his eyes closed and didn't answer.

"He's got a knife in his stomach, Sherlock," Lestrade told him.

"John? John can you hear me?" Sherlock asked, and then he cursed quite loudly.

John's eyes fluttered open. "Sorry, think I fainted." He looked at the other two and frowned. "Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you? Calm down for heaven's sake."

"You have…" Sherlock trailed off. He signed something complicated to John.

"Oh that's a good idea!" John said. "Though I'd have to know BSL too for it to work."

Sherlock cursed and gritted his teeth, looking at the nightclub door.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "Calm down." He gently took Sherlock's hand.

"The ambulance is two minutes away," a police officer called to them.

Sherlock held two fingers up at John.

"Lovely. I can last until then, you'll see," John said. He rested his head and closed his eyes.

Sherlock stared at him helplessly and focussed on remembering to breathe.

John was pleased that the wailing of the siren was loud enough to work its way through to his eardrums.

oOo

John woke up looking at the lurid ceiling tiles and strip lighting so favoured in public buildings. The curtains drawn around his bed were plain blue. He glanced up at the machines by his bed but they failed to have any 'property of…' stickers on them. He sighed and moved his hands to rub his face. He noticed that one of them was obstructed by a heavy weight and he glanced down the bed to find Sherlock's head resting on his mattress. The rest of his body was in a visitor's chair next to the bed. He was sound asleep.

John smiled slightly and shook his head. He ran his hand into Sherlock's hair and gently stroked his head for a while.

He withdrew his hand and flicked Sherlock on the forehead. He woke up with a start and looked around the room, and then at John.

"You woke up then?" he said.

"Yes."

"And you can hear!"

"Oh! Yes!" John sang a quite ascending scale and smiled. "That's nice! I should get stabbed more often."

Sherlock's face clouded over slightly. "I'm not sure I'm that confident in the cause and effect chain there."

John smiled. "Sherlock, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I want to look at my cool new scar, but that can wait until we get home. Talking of which, when can we go home?"

"I don't know. They won't tell me anything."

"Where are we?"

"Tommy's."

"Huh. You didn't insist on Bart's then."

"No. The paramedics seemed to want to take control."

"I find that they often do. What's the time?"

"Four."

"Damn it! I missed lunch."

"It wasn't nice."

John grinned. "Right, let's see if I can get a doctor to discharge me and let's go home."

"Are you sure? You were just stabbed. There was blood and everything!"

"I'm fine, I'm trying to remember who I know who works here. Never mind, let's find a doctor and go home. Don't look like that; there's a cool new scar to look at!"


	27. Freezing

**This one was prompted by Crazykids121. And the nice thing is, I feel much better today. See if you can spot the point halfway through this chapter where I stopped being bad-moody-Pip.**

* * *

Freezing.

John tried to stay focussed. He reminded himself that he had been colder than this. The nights on the hills in Afghanistan had been much, much colder than this. He fought the subsequent thought that he'd only been exposed briefly on those nights, and he had the shelter of a half solid tent with a gas burner to dash too between stints in the open air.

He'd also had better clothing. As much as he liked his shooting jacket, it was not up to much in this freezing night. Shooters, he decided, must only go out in the warm.

He'd stopped stamping his feet some time ago.

He had, on a number of occasions, shoved his hands down the back of his trousers to try to get some warmth to his fingertips.

He had long since stopped being amused by the thick steam he was breathing out. In fact, breathing was proving problematic at the moment. He was quite aware that the air he was breathing into his lungs was very cold. He'd tried to counter this by taking only short, slow breaths. Unfortunately, this made him quite dizzy.

The dizziness was a problem too. He had been staring at the house opposite for about seven hours now, and he was reasonably sure that he hadn't seen anyone come or go. He was relatively certain that the black cat he'd seen jumping over the wall over and over again was at least partly real.

He was not sure whether anyone had passed him on the street. Logically, someone must have, but he wouldn't like to pick any of the passers-by out in a line up.

He had stopped shivering which was something. His legs ached though. He wasn't sure he'd be able to move them when someone turned up.

He wondered whether anyone was going to turn up. He had understood, when he'd started watching, that someone would turn up, something would happen with the house, and that he would have to follow… someone. And call someone. That man probably. The tall, annoying one with the hair. That one.

He thought that maybe it would be a good idea to curl up and go to sleep now for a bit. This would probably start making sense if he just had a little bit of sleep. The pavement certainly looked temptingly soft.

"John!"

John turned slightly to find that annoying man with the hair just feet away from him. He'd clearly been shouting for some time.

"Hello!" he said.

"John, what the hell are you still doing here?"

"What?"

"Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you pick up your voicemail?"

"Voicemail?"

"On your phone!"

"Phone?"

"God in heaven," Sherlock muttered, and he pulled John's jacket open and rummaged in his breast pocket. He grabbed John's phone and looked at in. "No signal? How can there be no signal? We're in a residential street!"

"Um?"

"OK, John, let's go home now. I can fill you in with the rest there."

"Rest!"

"Come on."

He pulled John along and John staggered and fell to his knees. Sherlock looked shocked as John used him to pull himself back up again.

"John, I think I need to take you to hospital now."

"Home."

"No, I think you need a hospital."

"No. Just a bit cold. Legs working now."

He took an unbalanced step forward. Sherlock grabbed him to stop him falling again.

"See," John said. "Fine now. Just need to warm up."

Sherlock wrapped one of John's arms around his shoulder and helped him walk a bit towards wider, busier roads.

He found a taxi and shoved John inside. The driver glanced in the mirror at them, but consented to drive them home.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked.

"Fine. Bit cold. My feet hurt."

"I really think I should take you to hospital."

"Thanks. But no, just need to warm up. Can do it at home."

"I'm really sorry you stood there for all that time."

"Yeah. Me too." He started shivering again and nodded appreciatively as he watched his arms shake. "Havin' a little sleep now." He curled up with his feet on the seat and shut his eyes.

"No, I don't think so," Sherlock said and he shook his shoulder until John's eyes opened again. "Hospital," he said.

"Home," John said.

"If you were me and I were you, what would you say?"

"Home," John said.

"Not likely!"

"No, home. Warm bath, not hot, bit hotter, bit hotter, then very dry, then duvet roll with hot water bottles. And tea. With sugar. Don't need hospital, not that advanced. Now quiet. Sleep." He shut his eyes again.

Sherlock shook him again.

"OK, if you had a hypothermic patient who wanted to sleep, would you let them?"

John frowned for a long time. He glanced at Sherlock. "Don't let me sleep."

"Good. Thank you."

"Welcome." He closed his eyes again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook him again.

"John? John!" John opened his eyes and looked at him. "I need you to name all the bones in the body from the bottom up."

"Why?"

"Humour me."

"I'm too tired."

"Do it. Name them."

John sighed. "OK. Feet. No, no, er… toes. Little ones. Er… Toes. Um. Phalanx."

"Good!"

"Then… Metatarsal."

"Good, next?"

"Damn it. I'm damned tired."

"Yes, I don't care. Phalanx, metatarsal, then…?"

"Cuboid. Cuniforms… navicular. Talus…"

"Good. What's after talus?"

"Um."

"Come on John!"

"Um."

"What's the capital of Poland?"

"Er…"

"OK, and easy one, capital of France."

"Parrot! Paris!"

"Capital of Italy?"

"Rome."

"Capital of Spain?"

"Madrid."

"We're here."

"What?"

"We're home. Right, let's get you warm."

"Yeah. I'm a bit cold."

"Yes. If you pass out, I _am_ going to take you to hospital!"

Sherlock paid for the cab and pulled John onto the pavement. His walking seemed a little steadier now, which gave Sherlock some encouragement. He was clearly still fighting sleep though. Sherlock helped him up the stairs and sat him down on an armchair in front of the fire.

"I'll run you a bath," he said. "Don't go to sleep in my absence."

"Sherlock, don't make it too hot. Warmer than body temperature and no more."

"OK."

John watched the fire and shook his head to try and get some life into his brain. A second later Sherlock was in front of him with a steaming mug of tea. He cursed.

"What?" Sherlock asked him.

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"I'm losing time."

"What?"

"My brain. It's not working well."

"Oh. No. But then it never did really. Drink this."

He handed John the mug but John's shaking was so pronounced he spilled some onto his legs. Sherlock took it back.

"I can't believe how much you're shaking!" he muttered, trying to brush down John's legs. "John, I really think you need to go to hospital."

"No. Seriously, I need to get warm. How's that bath."

"I'll check."

Sherlock vanished and returned with John's thermometer and he shoved it into John's ear.

"What are you doing!" John said squirming.

"I'm checking your core temperature! Hold still!"

The thermometer beeped and Sherlock checked the display.

"It's just says 'Lo'! What does that mean?"

"It means you're not using the thermometer right. I'm going to have a bath."

John pulled himself up and walked slowly to the bathroom. He turned to close the door after him but it was obstructed by a consulting detective.

"What?" John said.

"What?" Sherlock replied.

"No, what are you doing? Do you need the loo? I'll wait."

"No I'm fine, I'm just not going to leave you alone in a bath when you're still falling asleep and losing time."

John stared at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look, if you're strangely and inexplicably embarrassed, I'll find you a pair of swimming trunks. Or stay in your pants, I don't care, just strip and get into the bath, and I'll sit on the toilet and make sure you don't fall asleep or pass out. Is the water temperature OK?"

John put his hand in the water. "It feels hot, but I suspect that's in comparison to me."

"It's only warm."

"Fine."

"Get in then."

John fumbled his way out of his clothes while Sherlock watched, impatiently. John gave him a look and then turned his back to remove his underwear. Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"If you're concerned that I'm judging, which I'm not, I've already factored in that you're cold…"

"I'm not worried!" John yelled. "I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of!"

"Good! Then get in the bath!"

John did so with a heart-felt sigh.

"I don't think I need watching that closely any more. I'm not feeling dizzy or faint."

"Yes you are."

"I'm not!"

"You are! You had to grab hold of the wall twice and the bath once in the short time you were getting in. I didn't keep a count of how often you had to lean on the wall while getting undressed, but it was easily more than eight."

"Maybe that's how I always undress and get in the bath."

"No, I've seen you undress when drunk and you're steadier than you are right now."

John frowned. "Why have you watched be strip when I'm drunk?"

"I don't know! It wasn't a conscious decision! You were drunk and got undressed and I just happened to be there minding my own business."

"You _never_ mind your own business."

"I sometimes do."

"Well the good news is that you're doing an excellent job of raising my blood pressure now."

"Good."

They sulked at each other for a while. John leant forwards to reach for the hot tap.

"I've got it!" Sherlock said, turning it on for him. "Tell me when to turn it off again."

"OK."

After a moment John signalled and Sherlock turned the tap off and went to his perch on the toilet.

"Just out of interest," John said, "is the watching me undress while I'm drunk a regular occurrence?"

"No."

"OK."

There was more silence.

"So how often has it happened?" John asked. "Because I don't remember you there at all."

"That's not my fault! You're spectacularly unobservant. I've always said."

"Yes, but generally I can tell when there's a six-foot sociopath in the room. Like now, for instance. I'm very aware of your presence."

"It's happened twice. Maybe three times."

"_Maybe_ three times. Sherlock, you don't deal in 'maybes'."

"Once by accident, once as an experiment, and once…"

"Yes?"

"I needed to verify the results of the experiment"

"So let me get this right, you've been sneaking into my room and watching me undress while I'm drunk."

"No!"

"Sherlock, do you know how incredibly creepy that is?"

"That's not how it happened!"

"What exactly was this experiment. Oh, hell. Actually I'm not sure I want to know."

"It was nothing sinister!"

"Sinister by whose definition?"

"Anyone's! I wanted to see how unobservant you are while drunk. The first time it was an accident, I was in your room and you came in mumbling some nonsense and then you took your clothes off and went to bed!"

"Why were you in my bedroom?"

"I just happened to be there."

"Yes. Why?"

"I needed some stuff out of your medical bag."

"I _knew_ you'd stolen my iodine! You denied it, you sod!"

"I denied it honestly! I didn't _steal_ your iodine! I _borrowed_ it!"

"Fine, let's forget about the iodine, and focus on the fact that you appear to be creepily stalking me while I'm drunk."

"No! They were experiments!"

"Sherlock, whatever they were, can you please promise me that you won't do it again?"

Sherlock pouted. "I don't see why."

"Because I'm asking you to. I'm asking _nicely_, I'm being _polite_, I'm not going to the police and asking for a restraining order or anything! I just want to know that you accept that I'm entitled to a teeny tiny bit of privacy in my own bedroom."

"I don't see why you're so bothered about it."

"You don't have to see why I'm bothered about it. You just have to accept that I am!"

He reached for the hot tap again, but Sherlock got there first. He was wearing his petulant face and John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock noticed.

"OK, how about this," Sherlock suggested. "You can watch me take my clothes of while I'm drunk on three occasions. I'll even get drunk specifically for it. Then we'll be even."

John stared at him for a while.

"Sherlock," he said eventually. "That's wrong on so many levels that I don't even know where to start."

"But why?" Sherlock whined.

"OK, well, we are _flatmates,_ and you just suggested you go out and get pissed, then perform a striptease for me."

Sherlock looked thunderstruck and he stared at the door for a moment.

"Three times," John said.

Sherlock blushed and suddenly giggled. "Well obviously I didn't mean it like that!"

"Really?"

Sherlock struggled to stop laughing. He was very red. "No! And while I can see how it might have been interpreted that way…" he stopped and giggled again. "I didn't mean…"

John laughed too. "All I'm saying is that I'd prefer it if you respected my privacy a bit. That's all."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry. I have to admit I'm feeling slightly stressed about the hypothermia. I didn't mean anything, I'll stop watching you undress when you're drunk."

"Thank you."

John's phone beeped and Sherlock fished it out of his trouser pocket.

"You've got a voicemail," he told John. He dialled the mailbox and listened. "Oh. It's me, five hours ago, telling you that you don't need to wait anymore."

"Oh. Good. I won't then."

"Your phone provider is rubbish. And it wasn't my fault at all."

"I never said it was!"

"No. But you probably should have done."

They looked up as there was the sudden noise of someone coming into the flat.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called.

"We're in here!" Sherlock called back.

"No! Sherlock!" John snapped but Lestrade had already barged in.

"Sherlock… Shit! John, I'm sorry!" He blushed and turned away. "When you said 'we're in here' I thought that meant come in!"

"It did!" Sherlock said.

"John's in the bath!"

"Yes! He's got hypothermia so he needs a warm bath, and I need to make sure he doesn't pass out."

"Sherlock, seriously," John said. "We were talking about you respecting my privacy just thirty seconds ago!"

"But you're not drunk! I honestly don't understand why this is a problem to anyone! Lestrade, you've seen naked men before!"

"Yeah, but not John!"

"So? John's body is no more or less hideous than any other man's! And I've already explained that he's got hypothermia, so you should take that into consideration when judging…"

"SHERLOCK! GET OUT!" John yelled. "Now! Go!"

Lestrade had bolted at the first raised syllable. Sherlock gave John a hurt look.

"You're problem, John, is that you don't seem to understand when someone is trying to help you."

He stalked out of the bathroom with his nose in the air.


	28. Food Poisoning

**OK, hiccups is coming for all those who have prompted it! It's just this one was prompted yesterday by Charliebrown1234 and it pretty much wrote itself so you're getting it first. I'm running out of free time tomorrow too, so this might all slow down a bit again, but I'll do my best. **

**Tone warning on this one: a bit mushy.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Food poisoning.

"John? John?"

John stumbled towards wakefulness. It was reasonably bright in his room, so he knew this must just have been a nap. On the other hand, he was bloody knackered, so he must have worked a night shift.

No, he didn't work night shifts anymore. So he must have been kept up all night by Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock.

"John?" He was poked in the chest by a finger.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock.

"John, I ate the prawns."

John stared at Sherlock.

"OK," he said.

"No, John, I ate the prawns! And now I think I might die!"

John tried to shake some life into his brain.

"Do you mean the prawns that I told you to put in the bin?"

"Yes." Sherlock was shivering at him and looked wide-eyed and pale.

John rubbed his head. "Why did you eat the prawns that I told you had gone off?"

"It was…"

"Sherlock! If you say it was an experiment, so help me god, I will kill you. I'll kill you right here and now, with my bare hands."

Sherlock paused. "The bin was full."

"And?"

"And so I couldn't… I was being lazy."

"Right. So rather than empty the bin and dispose of the bad prawns responsibly, you decided to eat them."

"…"

"Seriously, Sherlock, you deserve everything that you get." He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

"John! Please! What should I do?"

"When did you eat them?"

"Half an hour ago."

"I suggest you go to the bathroom and try to throw them up again."

"I tried! I couldn't!"

"Go and try again."

"John!"

John didn't move or answer. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then accepted responsibility and left.

John lay there for less than thirty seconds, and then the guilt became overwhelming and with a barrage of swearing he got up and headed downstairs.

Sherlock was in the bathroom, looking into the toilet.

"Is that what you call trying?" John demanded.

"I don't want to be sick."

"No, but you also don't want 250 grams of bad prawns in your digestive tract. You need to get rid of them."

"I hate being sick."

"Nobody enjoys being sick, Sherlock."

"No, but I really hate it."

"Ah, yes. You're special, I forgot. Wait here." He disappeared and returned with a small glass and a bottle.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"Ipecac."

"Will it make me feel better?"

"Yep. Here, drink this." He handed the glass across.

Sherlock sniffed at it and grimaced, but he caught the look on John's face and he dutifully drank it.

"Good," John said, and he took the glass back.

"Now what?" Sherlock asked.

"Now, you wait."

"In here?"

"Yep." He started to leave.

"John?"

"What?"

"I don't feel well!"

"Yes. You ate bad prawns. I very specifically told you to bin them. I told you that they'd turned. They were three days over their sell-by date, and if all of that wasn't enough, I would have thought that the suspicious colour and smell coming from them… Here we go."

Sherlock turned and threw up an amount of bad prawns.

"Can I suggest you kneel down," John said. "You're making a mess."

Sherlock shuddered but he did kneel by the toilet. He threw up again.

"There you go," John said. "I think you'll probably live now. More's the pity."

"John!" Sherlock wailed.

"Sherlock I was having a _really nice _nap! I haven't slept in two days! If you want me to be nice, you have to let me sleep!"

Sherlock retched and vomited again.

John sighed and went to get him a glass of water. When he got back, Sherlock was mournfully trying to clean the toilet seat with toilet paper.

"Feel better now?" John asked.

"No." To demonstrate his point, he threw up again.

John rolled his eyes.

"Here, I brought you some water."

Sherlock was in no position to take it, so John put it on the side of the sink. He started to leave again.

"John! Please!" Sherlock choked.

John stopped, sighed, and accepted defeat. He went to the sink and started running a face-cloth under the hot tap while Sherlock coughed and spat.

"Here, wipe your face with that," he said, taking Sherlock by the shoulder. "It'll make you feel better."

Sherlock took it with quivering hands and wiped his face. John flushed for him.

"OK now?" John said.

Sherlock pulled a face. "It came out my nose."

John sniggered. He tried not to, but he couldn't help it. He reached past Sherlock for toilet paper and he handed it to him, grinning.

"Sorry, I shouldn't laugh," he said. "Blow your nose."

Sherlock did so and he threw the paper into the toilet. John gave him the water and he sipped at it. He sat back against the wall with his legs bent and he looked sheepishly at the floor.

"I suppose you're entitled to laugh," he said.

"Sorry. It's just… sometimes you're the giddy limit, Sherlock. You really are."

Sherlock sighed and picked at his pyjama trousers.

"Why don't you go to bed for a bit," John told him. "You haven't slept for a while either. That might be some of the cause of the sudden attack of stupidity."

"I think I should stay in here for a bit." He stared at his knees.

"Do you want me to stay with you?"

Sherlock looked extremely embarrassed, but he nodded nonetheless.

John sighed again and perched on the side of the bath and watched Sherlock.

"You don't think I'm special," Sherlock said, very quietly.

John raised his eyebrows and thought of the many and varied ways that he thought Sherlock was a bit special.

"I think you need some sleep," he said.

Sherlock muttered a curse and leaned over the toilet again. John felt a wave of sympathy and he rubbed Sherlock's back, while Sherlock retched and struggled and sighed.

"There's not much coming out anymore," he muttered.

"No," John replied. "I think you've done now. Come on, go to bed for a while, and you'll feel better in the morning."

He flushed the toilet again and the noise covered what Sherlock said next.

"Sorry, hon, I didn't hear you."

"Hon?"

"Sorry. Slip of the tongue. What did you say?"

Sherlock looked at him for a while.

"I said I'd sleepwalk tonight." He spoke quietly, but he stood up straight and let John judge him.

John frowned for a while.

"Sherlock," he said. "Is it possible that all of this nonsense was just so you'd have an excuse for me to sleep in your bed tonight?"

Sherlock looked at him but didn't say anything.

John leaned against the wall and rubbed his face.

"Sherlock, I've just spent the last half hour trapped in a bathroom, supervising someone as they throw up. That's something I've only ever done for girlfriends before now, which probably explains the 'hon' slip." He frowned. "And I've done it for Harry once. But I don't call her honey."

Sherlock frowned at him and swallowed.

"So you see me the way you see your girlfriends?"

"Or my sibling. And I'd suggest that I care for you the way I care for my girlfriends. Or sibling. It's a subtle distinction, but one that I think is important."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he nodded slightly. John couldn't decide whether he looked disappointed or not. He walked up to him and put his hands on his shoulders.

"Sherlock, I think you are very, very special. I think you're special in relation to the world in general, and to me specifically. OK?"

There was another slight nod.

"Good," John said. "Now, for the future, can I suggest that if you have any reason to want me close by at night, you say something like 'John, I'm a bit worried about nightmares and sleepwalking tonight, do you mind bunking in my room?' rather than, I don't know, _poisoning yourself_ in some sort of desperate plea for attention?"

Sherlock blushed slightly and John was glad to see some colour come back to his face. Sherlock nodded again. He sniffed and looked away too for good measure.

"OK, good. Now brush your teeth and change your pyjamas because there's no way on god's green earth that I'm getting into bed with you in that state."

John left him alone to clean up and went to get his pillows, wondering once again what on earth he had done in his life to deserve Sherlock Holmes.


	29. Mycroft

**Prompts from NikkiJustTalk, Ahreader, and someone somewhere asked for a sick Mycroft, but I can't find the prompt now. I'm sorry! I'm rubbish.**

Mycroft.

"I'm so bored!" Sherlock yelled.

He was upside down on his armchair with his legs hanging over the back. John was sitting at the table and occasionally Sherlock prodded him with his feet until he swatted them away.

"So you keep saying." John did not look away from his computer.

"I'm _so_ bored!" Sherlock shouted again. He prodded John again and was rewarded with another slap.

"I know. I just don't understand why you think it's my problem."

"That's because you're stupid."

"So says the fully grown, self-employed man who's complaining that he's bored. There's a whole world out there. If you're bored, find something to do."

"The world is boring," Sherlock muttered.

"The whole world? The _whole world_ doesn't meet your expectations. Right."

They were quiet for a while as John worked and Sherlock sulked. After a while he went to poke John with his feet again, but was swatted away before he made contact. He sighed.

"It's your problem," Sherlock said, "because eventually I'll be so bored that I do something silly, and that will mean more work for you. I'm surprised that you haven't worked this out yet."

John sighed. "No, next time you do something stupid, I'm just going to let you bleed to death."

Sherlock kicked at him again.

"You see, I have a theory," John said.

"Oh god," Sherlock groaned.

"My theory is this…"

"No, this is going to be something insulting to me, isn't it?"

"My theory is that you're not bored."

"You're stupid."

"No, you're stupid. You're stupid because at some point you've mistaken the feeling of craving attention for boredom."

"I don't crave attention!"

John laughed loudly.

"I…" Sherlock started.

"You do, Sherlock! That's why you're not bothered by it when you're working. It's all fine while you're doing your spinning and running and half-sentences and everyone's looking at you and you're keeping us all on the edges of our seats, and you bloody love it. Then it's solved, and everyone goes home, and you hate that feeling where everyone's life is just going on and you're not even vaguely relevant to them anymore."

John looked at the parts of Sherlock he could see. His feet had stopped twitching and poking and were very still. Sherlock was silent.

"I think it's true," John went on. "I think that's why you do stupid things like start shooting the wall five minutes before you know I'm getting home, and poisoning yourself, or cutting or burning yourself, just so you'll have someone shouting, or running, or bandaging you. You want a fuss, so you make the fuss happen. I don't know whether it's conscious or not, but it's what you do."

Sherlock remained silent and still and John wondered whether he'd pushed slightly too far. Sherlock sniffed and John felt the first prickling of guilt.

"It's just a theory," he said quietly.

"It's a _stupid_ theory!" Sherlock said, scrambling to get to his feet, and he stood next to the table to look at John. "It's a stupid theory for so many reasons I can't begin to list them, but know this, I will bet you, absolutely bet you that I don't do anything to hurt or maim myself today. I will bet you… ten pounds."

"Ten pounds?"

"Yes. Why are you not interested in a bet about it? Are you that lacking in confidence about your theory?"

"No, I just think that ten pounds is a rubbish bet. Let's make it interesting."

Sherlock frowned.

"What do you suggest?"

John thought for a moment.

"OK, if, during the next twenty-four hours, you harm yourself in any way, you will have proven my theory, and you will have to make me… no, _buy _me dinner every day, for a month."

"You want me to take you out for dinner?"

"Not necessarily, though yes, that would be lovely. You can choose to get a take away, you can even choose to cook for me as long as the resulting meal is edible. But you provide me with my evening meal every day for a month."

"OK." Sherlock nodded.

"Fine," John said. "What do you want should you win?"

"You."

"What?"

"You. No! Not like that! You have such a dirty mind sometimes! No. I want you, to be present, to be there with me, entertaining me, engaging with me, talking with me, all the time, every day for a month."

"Apart from when I'm at work doing the job I'm actually paid for."

"No, you can't work for a month."

"I can't accept that then."

"I will compensate you for your time."

"Sherlock, you're making me sound like a rent-boy."

"Well then you don't know me at all."

"No, unfortunately I do." He looked at Sherlock for a while. "OK, a week. I can go for a week without taking a shift, and you won't compensate me for my time."

"One week, twenty-four hours a day?"

John sighed. "Yes. Fine."

Sherlock grinned. "You're not looking so sure about your theory now, John!"

John put his hand out to shake. "One month of dinner against one week of… something unidentifiable and strange."

Sherlock shook his hand with a grin and went to sit down on the sofa.

"You see," he said, "all I have to do is sit right here for the next twenty-four hours, and I win!"

"Sherlock, you do understand that your terms proved my point somewhat, don't you?"

Sherlock's face fell and he stared at the wall.

John sighed and shook his head.

They both turned as they heard the sound of a woman's footsteps coming up the stairs. Mycroft's assistant appeared in the doorway and she looked at them both.

"Hello, person who isn't called Anthea," John said.

She frowned slightly. "Doctor Watson, Mister Mycroft Holmes has asked you to come to his apartment at once."

John frowned back. "Has he really?"

"Yes sir."

Sherlock looked between them both as they stared blankly at each other.

"Anthea? Is my brother ill?" he asked.

"Your name_ is_ Anthea?" John asked.

"John, you're missing the point," Sherlock said, his eyes dancing. "My brother's ill!"

"Doctor Watson, should I tell him you won't attend?" Anthea asked.

"Wait, I don't understand. He's got his own doctor. Probably more than one; why does he want me?"

"Sir, it's a delicate problem, and he'd prefer not to go to one of his usual doctors."

John boggled.

Sherlock laughed and clapped his hands.

"Oh John! You _must_ go!" He coughed to calm himself. "Actually, give me a tick to get dressed and I'm coming too."

"Mister Holmes specifically asked that you didn't come too, Mister Holmes."

"But he wants me?" John asked.

"Yes sir."

Sherlock turned to John and silently begged him to let him come too. John marvelled at the feeling of having every single bit of power in a relationship, and then sighed with the knowledge that he was too nice a person to do anything with that power.

He nodded. "Run and get dressed."

Sherlock ran.

"But sir…" Anthea started.

"No, if you want me for this very delicate matter, then he comes too."

Anthea sighed. "Mister Holmes said that if you insisted on these terms, the he would agree, but you accept full responsibility for Mister Holmes, sir."

"It's fine! He does!" Sherlock shouted from his room.

John looked at Anthea and smiled. "So, how have you been?"

She frowned at him. "I've been very well. Thank you."

"Good, good."

She continued to stare at him.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go out to dinner with me some time?" John said.

"No."

"OK."

She continued to stare at him. John tried very hard to control his blush.

Sherlock came back in, buttoning his shirt as he came. "She turned you down then," he said to John while grabbing both coats. "Never mind. You're stuck with me for the next week anyway, and I'd strongly recommend no dates during that time."

John took his coat from Sherlock, grabbed his bag, and followed them downstairs to the waiting car. Sherlock wedged himself between Anthea and John.

"This is nice, isn't it?" he said to John, grinning, and patting John's leg. "Going to visit my brother!"

"Try to remember he is a bit ill, Sherlock," John said. "I'm not going to allow you to be in the room while I examine him."

"Spoilsport."

"No, _Doctor._"

"Have you ever been to Mycroft's place?"

"No."

"Try to accidentally break something. Everything's worth _thousands_."

John grinned.

They arrived at Mycroft's apartment block and John tried very hard not to be cowed by the magnificence of his surroundings. Sherlock relaxed as if this all represented normal life for him.

They were shown into Mycroft's apartment, and along the wide, gorgeously decorated hallway to Mycroft's bedroom.

Mycroft was lying propped up in a luxurious looking bed, with very good quality furnishings, a wealth of pillows and surrounded by paperwork.

He looked up as they came in.

"Ah, you came. You _both_ came. Well, I no longer require your services. Thank you for coming. Goodbye."

John stared and Mycroft stared back.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time, Doctor Watson." He hiccuped.

"You're not sorry about wasting mine then?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft ignored him.

"No, wait a minute," John said. "Mycroft, you don't like me as a person and you don't respect me as a doctor, so I want to know why the bloody hell you summoned me from across London. What were your symptoms? Are you sure they have passed?"

"I… _hic._" Mycroft went quiet and looked pensive. "It would appear I may need your services after all. _Hic._"

John frowned. "OK. What are your symptoms?"

"Isn't it _hic_ obvious?"

John frowned. "No. Sherlock step outsi…" He looked at Sherlock who was bright red from suppressed laughter. He looked back at Mycroft.

"_Hic._"

"Mycroft," John said. "Is it possible that you asked me to come here because you've got hiccups?"

"_Hic._ Yes. Fix them."

John stared.

"Can we scare him?" Sherlock asked through his laughter.

John glanced at him and looked back at Mycroft.

"_Hic."_

John shook his head and rubbed his face.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go home."

"Doctor Watson! _Hic_. I don't think you understand the grav_hic_ity of my position! I have an important job! I speak to _hic_ dignitaries from all around the world. _Hic._ I can't possibly do so _hic_ like this!"

"_Mister Holmes,_" John said, standing up straight. "I don't think_ you _understand the gravity of my profession! I am a _doctor_! I was an _army_ doctor. I stop people from dying! I do not run about London looking after prissy old men who have a case of the hiccups!"

Sherlock looked at John with a face full of both surprise and respect.

Mycroft shuffled and hiccupped. He looked at John and had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

"Doctor Watson, _hic, _I apologise. I was wrong to…"

"You were what?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft glared at him and hiccupped. He turned back to John.

"I was wrong to _hic_ call you here for such a trivial _hic_ reason."

John calmed down and nodded his acceptance.

"However, _hic,_" Mycroft continued. "Tonight I am giving _hic_ a speech to President Hu Jintau, _hic_, and I tomorrow I hope to have a discussion with _hic_ him regarding… well, please understand _hic_ when I say they will be _hic_ of critical importance to several people's lives, and there is no _hic_ way that will happen if _hic_ I embarrass him with my speech tonight. _Hic. _I would be extremely _hic_ grateful if you could help _hic_ me._"_

John looked at him and nodded slowly.

"Can you give him that stuff that makes people vomit?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft looked horrified but John just frowned at Sherlock.

"How would that help?"

"I'd find it funny."

John shook his head and sighed.

"OK, Mycroft, what have you tried so far," he asked.

"I've tried _hic_ calling you."

John sighed again.

"You're stupid, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "You can't cure hiccups. It's one of those things that can't be cured, even if you're a really good doctor, like John." He put his hand on John's shoulder, and smiled, smugly.

"Actually I can," John said.

"What? Really?" Sherlock asked. "Oh! Is this like your cold remedy? Because if you gave that to Mycroft, that would be nearly as funny as the ipecac."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Mycroft, where's your kitchen?"

"It's along the corridor _hic_, to the left, and down the stairs. Anthea will show you _hic_. Anthea, tell Marie to give him everything he needs."

John followed Anthea out the room.

Sherlock came to peer at Mycroft. Mycroft did his best to ignore him. Sherlock stepped closer to the bed, put a hand out, and slid one of the papers towards him.

"Sherlock! _Hic_. Stop it!"

"If it was confidential, you wouldn't have it on your bed in full view."

"_Hic. _That's not the point! _Hic._"

Sherlock sat down on the bed to read the paper. It bored him.

"Sherlock! _Hic._ Go away! Go and stand _hic_ over there!"

Sherlock went, taking the paper with him.

"You know,_ hic, _I think the whole point of you, _hic,_ is to make me miserable! _Hic._ I think our parents had _hic_ you just because they hated _hic_ me!"

"Oh don't get your knickers in a twist, Mycroft. It's been over thirty years. Get over it."

"_Hic."_

Sherlock walked around the room and picked up a vase. He examined it for a while and put it down, carelessly. It rocked slightly, but failed to crash to the ground and Sherlock sighed. He prowled towards a writing desk.

"Leave _hic_ that alone!"

Sherlock opened it.

"This is nice!" he said. "This is eighteenth century?"

"_Hic._ Shut up, Sherlock."

"This isn't right! This is too modern. What is this?"

"_Hic."_

"Your silence is much less effective when you've got the hiccups. What is this? Is this a stapler? It's far too modern for you, was it a gift? Anthea gave it to you didn't she. It's a nice gift. I hope you gave her a yacht in return."

"_Hic."_

"It's automatic!" Sherlock pressed a button and a staple shot out. He laughed and picked up the paper that he'd taken from the bed and put it under the staple and pressed the button again. "If I had one of these, I'd use it every day! I might steal this from you! I'll start stapling every receipt to the curtains."

Mycroft sighed and hiccupped and looked up relieved as John walked into the room.

"Right," John said. "I'm about to cure you."

"Marvellous. _Hic._ Then can you take him away?"

"Have you got anything I can staple, John?"

John rolled his eyes and opened a bottle of vinegar.

"What's that _hic_ for?"

"That's for you, Mycroft."

Sherlock turned to look.

"Vinegar! Witchy medicine! Marvellous!"

"_Hic! _I can't swallow _hic _vinegar!"

"Mycroft, if you've ever had more than two pickled onions, you've consumed more vinegar in one shot than I'm about to give you."

"He once ate fourteen!" Sherlock piped up.

Mycroft shook his head, annoyed, unnerved and embarrassed.

"One teaspoonful," John said. "It will cure your hiccups, you can go and change the world and I'll take Sherlock away. OK?"

Mycroft nodded and hiccupped. John filled the teaspoon, and put it into Mycroft's open mouth.

"There we go," John said. "Another satisfied customer." He put the top back on the vinegar.

Mycroft looked at him warily and waited. John looked back at him and waited too. Sherlock continued to staple the paper.

"Good lord!" Mycroft said. "I think it's worked!"

"Probably," John said.

"Gosh! Well done, Doctor Watson! You have my heartfelt thanks!"

"You're welcome."

"Of course I'll pay you for your time and inconvenience!"

"No, I don't take private patients. I'm here as a friend."

"Doctor Watson, John, thank you! Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome, Mycroft. Could I make a request?"

"Of course, anything!"

"Next time, could you perhaps phone me? On my phone? And ask my advice in a calm, normal fashion."

Mycroft flushed but he nodded. "Of course, John. And I apologise, unreservedly." He held out his hand, somewhat stiffly, but John shook it anyway. "My driver will take you anywhere you wish, and will take Sherlock too if you wish him to go with you."

Sherlock squealed.

"Have you just put a staple in your hand there, Sherlock?" John asked, not looking at him.

"No!" Sherlock squeaked.

"It's no problem," John said. "I quite fancy Indian tonight. Come along now, darling."

Sherlock hurried after him whispering urgently about his hand and the pain and the blood and suggesting that as John had his medical bag there anyway…


	30. Nobody's Ill!

**A few author's notes. **

**Firstly; yes, vinegar does cure hiccups. Or at least, it has done every time I've tried it. Just a teaspoonful – no more than that. **

**Second; thank you, thank you for reviews, comments, and for reading this. This fic has become my most popular story so far. It's astonishing, and pleasing, so thank you for reading. **

**So having created something that people clearly like as it is, I'm now going to turn it into (non graphic) slash just because occasionally I like to shoot myself in the foot.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Nobody's Ill!

John woke up as Sherlock got into bed with him. It was the fourth night in a row. Or the fifth. It bothered him slightly that he'd lost track, but he was by now very, very tired.

Sherlock settled down close to John and remained silent.

"What's up?" John asked sleepily.

"Nothing."

John frowned. "Then why are you here?"

"Oh! I had a nightmare."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No."

John sighed. Sherlock moved slightly closer so John shuffled to give him a bit more room.

Sherlock rolled onto his front and was snuggling against John's back again. John shuffled again to get a bit more personal space.

Sherlock shuffled into the personal space and nuzzled his face against the top of John's back.

John sighed. He was, by now, perched at the side of his mattress. One false move and he'd fall to the floor.

"Sherlock, could you move up a bit?"

Sherlock sighed quietly but moved back to the middle of the bed. John moved closer to him, reasoning that when Sherlock fell asleep, he could just move away again.

"I've never done this before," Sherlock muttered.

John frowned again. "You've done this every day this week!"

"No, I meant before you. I remember once when I was small, I must have been three or four, I'd had a nightmare. It was an awful one, I was being buried alive by a skeleton crow… god it was horrible." He shuddered. "I remember standing in the hallway outside my parents' room, desperately wanting to be in there, but knowing that it was absolutely out of bounds. I can see why children like sleeping with other people. It's very comforting."

John lay still, looking towards the ceiling with wide eyes, digesting this.

It took him a while to get beyond; 'Christ, Sherlock's _weird_!'

He sighed though, and wrapped one of his arms around Sherlock to stroke his back a little bit. Sherlock's arm instantly wrapped around John too, and he shuffled closer to him, resting his face against John's shoulder.

John thought about his relationship with Sherlock and found he was somewhat disappointed that Sherlock saw him as a father-figure. He wasn't _that_ much older and it didn't seem particularly fair.

He was, however, aware of the fact that he did keep taking the parental role with Sherlock, so it was probably unfair for him to expect Sherlock to do anything other than act like a child.

For example, he knew from friends with children that when the child kept sneaking into their parents' room at night, the parents had to swiftly and calmly remove them and put them back in their own rooms. He knew that this worked. He knew that tired parents laughed afterwards and said they wish they'd tried it earlier.

So he wondered why he let Sherlock sleep in his bed night after night without complaining.

One reason, he thought, was that removing a six foot detective was probably more difficult than removing a small child.

But another reason was that not only did John treat Sherlock like a child, but he spoiled him rotten too.

And another reason was that it wasn't like there was anyone else in his bed at the moment. And it was just a bed, just used for sleeping, so who cared who was in it?

He sighed. He used to care who was in his bed.

The current dry patch was annoying him. He liked women. He liked being with women. Well, one at a time, usually. It frustrated him that he hadn't managed to be with a woman in any way at all for at least six months, and that time was just one cut-off date because Sherlock had called him and had needed him. It was almost as if he couldn't be bothered to try anymore.

He'd asked Anthea out purely because he knew she'd say no. It had seemed right, to him, to extend the courtesy and allow her to refuse him, rather than have him bitterly reflecting that she hadn't even seemed to notice that he'd been interested. Now he'd been clear, and she had been too. That was fair.

Sherlock hadn't cared. That was a thought that made him slightly bitter. Sherlock had accepted him asking her out without any hint of jealousy.

John suddenly froze. He was thinking about making Sherlock _jealous_? He simultaneously realised he'd been gently stroking the back of Sherlock's neck with his thumb for the last hour or so. Sherlock was clearly sound asleep, and by now John knew him well enough to know he wasn't faking. He stopped stroking and removed his arm so that he could rub his face to try to get all these annoying thoughts off him.

Sherlock shuffled but didn't wake up. His thumb started heading towards his mouth but John caught it lightly.

"Don't suck your thumb, Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock sighed and moved his hand away again. He rolled over, wrapped his arms around his pillow and rubbed his face into it and slept on.

John was glad he didn't have that insanely sweet face looking at him anymore.

He tried to rub that thought off him too.

He rolled over to face his window and tried to go back to sleep.

Jealousy. Now there was a strange one. Sherlock was occasionally jealous, John had noticed, when John was doing anything slightly medical with anyone else. Just the day before Sherlock had sat there with his bottom lip jutting out, watching him stitch and bandage a small gash on Lestrade's hand.

Sherlock had made a cup of tea for them all with an unnecessary amount of flouncing and head tossing.

He'd clearly put salt in Lestrade's deliberately.

Yet when John had asked out Anthea, not even a glimmer of upset.

Maybe he'd always known that he was going to get a brush off. He was safe in the knowledge that John would never date Anthea, so there was no threat. On the other hand, he clearly wasn't going to date Lestrade either.

On the other, other hand, John thought, he clearly wasn't going to date Sherlock either, so this whole train of thought was not only irrelevant, but it was also completely bizarre.

He sighed and shut his eyes and tried to go to sleep.

The thing was, there had been that time where he'd wondered…

No. That was a completely different thing.

It wasn't the same sort of jealousy at all. It was a _different_ sort.

It had occurred a couple of weeks after Sherlock's relapse. Sherlock had dutifully started attending AA meetings. The first week he'd done so weeping and wailing about the pointlessness of it, and the stupidity of all the people there and how it was nothing but brainwashing. He'd wept and wailed even though John had made it clear that going or not going was entirely his choice, and all that he could do was to strongly recommend that he did so.

The second week had been easier. Sherlock had headed out without a word, and at the end of the week, he announced to John that he'd found a sponsor. John had been delighted.

By the end of the third week, he had been less delighted, and more… _concerned_. Sherlock had taken to talking to his sponsor almost constantly. He had furtive, quiet phone calls in his bedroom, and came back to tell John sympathetically that it was important that he spoke confidentially to his sponsor, and he did understand, didn't he?

Later that weekend, he'd apologised to John, as he felt that he must feel left out. John had told him no, he was pleased that Sherlock had found someone who could help him, and that he was mostly relieved that Sherlock was able to communicate so freely with him.

Sherlock had stormed off and slammed his bedroom door and John had been left wondering what on earth he'd said wrong this time.

After that, Sherlock only called Clive once a week or so, sometimes not even that much, but he still went to the meetings.

And John had been left wondering, that perhaps, that maybe, that possibly, Sherlock had wanted to make him, John, jealous.

John shook his head again and rubbed his eyes.

It was a ridiculous thought.

Utterly ridiculous.

Sherlock had made it very clear, long ago, that he wasn't looking for any sort of physical relationship with John, and John knew that he probably wasn't looking for anything more with Sherlock either.

He opened his eyes and looked at the window.

_Probably?_ Where the hell had that thought come from?

He noticed that the light was beginning to glow gently through the curtains.

Ah, that thought had come from him being very, very tired.

He sighed and rubbed his face into his pillow and he eventually fell asleep.

He woke up late in the morning, with the sun streaming through the window and Sherlock nowhere to be seen. He'd almost entirely forgotten the thoughts of the night before and he went to wash and make himself some breakfast.

Half an hour later and he took his tea and toast to the table where Sherlock was sitting at his computer.

"John, have you ever boxed?" he asked.

"Boxed what?"

Sherlock looked at him with a smile. "No, boxed, as in boxing. Sparring. In a ring."

"Oh, no. I did karate for about seven years though."

Sherlock looked fascinated with this information. "How far did you get?"

"Brown belt. I went all through med school, but lost interest and then the army happened and stuff. Anyway, you were talking about boxing."

"Oh, yes. I need to get back into practice; I haven't properly trained for years. There's a club in Kentish Town that someone recommended and I wondered if you wanted to come."

"I don't much fancy standing in a ring while you clobber me."

Sherlock grinned. "Well originally I was thinking you'd make a convenient sparring partner, but not if you're at beginners level. But do you want to see what it's like." He frowned. "You're looking tired, are you OK?"

"Yeah I'm fine. So, boxing. OK then."

"Good. Eat your breakfast and we'll go out."

An hour later John followed Sherlock into Allen-Scarpie Boxing Club. They went to the reception and started filling in epic amounts of forms and John frowned as he tried to remember his doctor's name and address and every operation he'd had since he was twelve. Sherlock finished quickly and waited patiently for him.

The manager, Simon, appeared and he took them on a quick tour. He talked mostly to Sherlock at first, hearing about the lessons and grading he'd gone through at school, and the various gyms he'd attended and the tournaments he'd taken part in. John was surprised. He'd known that Sherlock had 'done boxing' at school, be he hadn't known he'd done it seriously and was apparently very good. Simon nodded and contemplated as Sherlock explained he was rusty, but looking to attend once or twice a week.

Simon turned to a young, scrawny-looking man who was practising at a punching bag.

"Darren, do you want to take a turn in the ring with Sherlock here,"

The boy nodded.

"Good, show him where to change will you."

They left and Simon turned to John.

"How about you? What level are you at?"

"Oh, I've never boxed before, ever."

"Would you be interested in lessons? We'd prefer that you took lessons before using the equipment unattended, but it would probably be OK if you were to be supervised just by Sherlock, depending on his level."

"What, lessons like in a group?"

"No. Well, you could, but you'd be with a bunch of kids. We do one on one lessons too."

"OK, well, I wouldn't mind that."

"Good. Matt's free for a taster session today, I'll introduce you."

Matt turned out to be a massive, cheerful, well-muscled gentleman of about thirty-five. He towered over John and instantly accepted him as a student.

'Or lunch,' John thought to himself.

He followed him up some stairs to the changing rooms though and hung his coat on a peg next to Sherlock's and changed into his sports kit. He met Matt back in the main sports area; a huge converted warehouse with six full sized boxing rings and an area for free exercise and a further one with punching bags. There was a balcony for watching events and probably for watching people as they trained. John briefly wished he was up there.

"I've found some spare gloves and a helmet for you to try." Matt told him. "Sorry they're a bit broke up."

"It's fine."

Matt's teeth flashed a smile in his dark face and John listened and watched as he explained about taping and lacing. When he'd finished, John held up his hands and frowned at how ridiculous they looked. Matt put the helmet on for him and tightened it carefully.

"You won't get hit today, but it's good practise. I'm getting my helmet on just in case, OK. Right, number four ring is free."

"We're going to start in the ring? Already?"

"Yep."

They walked along the line of boxing platforms and John glanced up at ring two where Sherlock was pummelling Darren. Simon was watching them, nodding appreciatively.

John stopped watching and walked to where Matt was waiting for him, and desperately hoping no-one was watching him as he scrambled up onto the platform and between the ropes.

Matt picked up a couple of sparring pads and explained how he wanted John to hit them. John concentrated and gave it a couple of goes. After that Matt stopped him and explained which muscles in John's shoulders he needed to use to extend reach and increase power. He held his arm at the right angle. John nodded and tried again.

"Your left arm is weaker than your right." Matt said, after some time.

"Yeah, I was shot in the shoulder. There's some scarring to the muscle."

"You was shot?

"Yeah."

"Can I see?"

"Um. Yeah."

He held his vest up so that Matt could look, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at showing off his war wound. Matt had a professional eye though, and he looked carefully at the scar and manipulated the muscles around it.

"It's not too bad, with your muscles," he said. "I can see the two it damaged, but we should be able to work round them. Here, show me holding your arm like this." John copied. "Now turn like this. Is that comfortable?"

"Yeah, it's fine"

"OK, let's try that then."

Half an hour later John was knackered and sweating profusely. Matt showed no signs of coming to an end or slowing down.

John shook his head for a moment and turned away for a breather. He noticed Sherlock leaning against the side of his ring and he blushed. He noticed that Sherlock was also very sweaty and he blushed a bit more. Sherlock nodded at him, and towelled some of the sweat off his face.

"Oi," Matt said and cuffed John lightly around the ear.

John shook his head and watched Sherlock take off his gloves and pick at the tape around his hands. He was panting heavily. He looked hot, John thought. He looked very hot in every which way you might look at it.

"Oi!" Matt said again, and cuffed John again, very slightly harder.

John turned and swung high and hard and punched Matt around the side of his head. Matt fell to the floor.

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

"Oh God! I'm so sorry," John said, covering his face with his gloved hands. "I'm so sorry, are you OK?"

Matt was making some very strange sounds with his breathing. John got closer. "Matt? Are you hurt?"

Matt turned around pulled himself up, roaring with laughter.

"For a short-arse, you've got some reach!" he said.

"Yeah," John said, with the faintest of smiles. "Are you OK?"

"Oh, I've been worse. I've been far worse. Lesson's over now though. Same time next week?"

"Yeah."

"I'm putting it in my diary. You'd better show up!"

"He will," Sherlock said, smiling broadly at him. "Come on, John."

John scrambled down, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder to do so.

"Have fun?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yeah."

"Good."

He followed Sherlock back up the stairs to the changing room. Sherlock stripped his vest off on the way and John watched the sweat trickle between his shoulder blades. When they got to the changing room John stood there, staring stupidly at his gloves.

"Er…" he said.

"Oh, I'd forgotten you had them on," Sherlock said. He started unlacing John's gloves. John found himself staring at a point on the left of Sherlock's right pectoral.

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock patted him on his cheek. "Are you OK? Did you get hit?"

"What? No." He pulled off his unlaced gloves and pulled himself free of the tape. He dropped it all on the bench. "Shower," he said and he charged off.

He almost died of relief when he found that the showers were in proper stalls with curtains. He dived into one of them and turned the water on. He stood there for a few moments.

He was very tired, he reminded himself. He was tired and had just done more physical exertion than he had for quite some time. His brain was bound to be acting somewhat erratically. He needed to go home, have something to eat, drink lots of tea, and perhaps to go for a nice, long nap. Then he'd be fine.

Sherlock's arm suddenly appeared in the cubicle, holding a bottle of shower gel.

"You forgot this," he called.

John took it with thanks. He calmed down.

They walked home together, cutting through Regent's Park. They were nearly home when Sherlock started laughing. He struggled to control himself.

"What?" John asked.

"You, flooring a 250 pound, mountain your first time in a boxing ring."

John giggled. "It was entirely accidental!"

Sherlock laughed again. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I can honestly tell you that I wasn't thinking anything at all. My mind was utterly empty."

Sherlock laughed again.

"I didn't expect you to do that!" He sniggered. "I really am very impressed!"

John swelled, happily.

"I mean," Sherlock went on. "He was utterly surprised, it wasn't like a fight situation where he'd have been concentrating and would have blocked. Also, he was off balance, he was part way off his back foot…"

John deflated again.

Sherlock stopped at their front door.

"Nonetheless, it was ridiculously impressive." He grinned at John. "Don't do it again, will you? You don't want to get a reputation."

"Don't I?"

Sherlock grinned again and let them in. He stood in the front room, undoing his scarf.

"Do you want tea?" John asked.

"Please. Actually, John?" John stopped and looked at him. "John, are you OK at the moment? You see a bit… off. You're not right somehow. Are you sickening for something do you think?"

"I'm fine. I'm… OK, I am suspicious that I'm losing my mind a bit, but other than that, I think I'm fine." Sherlock nodded, but a faint frown remained. "Thanks for caring though," John said, and he rocked quickly onto his tip-toes so that he could kiss Sherlock lightly on the lower lip.

He was half way to the kitchen when he realised what he'd done, and his heart was suddenly racing and annoyingly high in his chest and all the blood in his body had rushed to his head.

He stood at the counter, holding onto it slightly, trying to work out how to reverse time.

He decided that the only way was to ignore it completely and just hope that Sherlock hadn't noticed.

He concentrated hard on making the tea without turning and allowing Sherlock to see the redness in his face, and he refused to admit that this was pointless because his ears were glowing so brightly they were probably visible from space. He looked at the cups and for the first time ever, was pleased that the kettle took a couple of minutes to boil.

He calmed himself down and he made the tea. He turned to take it into the front room and was surprised to find that Sherlock had vanished. He sighed and went into the front room anyway, putting both teas down on the coffee table. He sat down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

He opened them again as he heard Sherlock coming back into the room. He quickly picked up his tea and hid his face in it.

"Is this one mine?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep." He drank some more tea and didn't look around as Sherlock sat down next to him.

"John…"

"Mm?" John still didn't look.

"John, I'm sorry, I know we've talked about this before, and I know these conversations make you uncomfortable…"

John's heart was racing again, and he put his tea down so that he didn't spill it everywhere. He reflected that he needed to find a way of stopping all his blood rushing to his face. When he'd conquered that, he could concentrate on stopping his blood flowing anywhere else, but that didn't seem to be of immediate concern.

The blush, however, was horrendous.

It wasn't as if Sherlock needed the extra help to know what he was thinking.

He closed his eyes even though this didn't help.

"John, I need you to know, that I consider myself married to you."

John opened his eyes again.

"I'm telling you this," Sherlock continued, "because it seems reasonable, in the case that I'm viewing you as my spouse, for you to call me honey, or darling, or occasionally kiss me should you desire to do so."

John stared at the fireplace.

"I feel I ought to tell you this," Sherlock said, "because you seem to be concerned that I find it unpleasant."

John stared at the coffee table.

"And I don't," Sherlock said.

John stared.

"John, are you aware your mouth is open?" Sherlock asked.

John shut his mouth.

They sat there in silence for a while.

"John…"

"No! Wait!" John said, holding a finger up for silence. "No."

"No what?"

"No. Just… no. No, no, no. No."

"No what?"

"Just… No, Sherlock! No, we are not married! You can't just go around _deciding_ that you're married to someone and _not even tell them!_"

"No, that isn't what I said! I know that I'm not married to you; I think that I'd have noticed if there had been a ceremony or a contract or anything like that! All I'm saying is that I view you in the way that someone might view someone they're married to!"

"No!"

"No what?"

"No, you can't do that! You can't just decide!"

"Why not! It's surely my business how I look at you, is it not?"

"Not just your business! It's my business too!"

"Why?"

"Because…! Because…! Because…!" John stood up, walked around the coffee table, and paced up and down the room a few times. "Because, quite aside from anything else, it means that I'm the most spectacularly rubbish husband in the world! I'm not attentive, I'm not nice! I chase you out of my bed when you get into it! Hell, I'm not even faithful!"

"Well I haven't got any complaints about any of that, actually."

"Well you should have!"

"Now you're angry with me for not being angry with you!"

"Sherlock! You _can't_ just decide that you're in a relationship with someone!"

"I didn't! We're clearly in some sort of relationship! I just…"

John turned to look at him. "What? You just what?"

"I just… redefined it a bit."

"Without telling me!"

"John, I'm sorry. This was a mistake. I made a mistake, I thought you… I thought perhaps…. I misread you. I'm sorry. It was a mistake, forget I said anything."

John stared at him for a while.

"I didn't think it mattered," Sherlock said quietly. "I didn't think it mattered as long as you weren't upset or disturbed. Clearly it did matter, and I'm sorry."

John frowned and shook his head.

"I'm going for a walk." He walked across the room, grabbed his jacket and headed out.

He hadn't made it far along the pavement before he heard Sherlock's footsteps and he winced as Sherlock fell into step beside him. He stopped and turned to look at him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you."

"Why! Do you not think I deserve a little bit of space from you right now?"

"Yes, of course you do. But when you've finished walking off your anger, you'll probably want to talk to me, and it would be more convenient if I was there then. Otherwise you'd have to walk all the way back to the flat."

John didn't find this funny.

He turned and continued walking, trying not to care that Sherlock was there too. It was half an hour before he was calm enough to think a coherent thought.

The thought, when it was able to break through the anger, was that it was unfair to let Sherlock think he'd misread him. He clearly hadn't. John had been wondering and thinking and dwelling, and he had been for days. Possibly longer. And while it was true, he was hoping that this was would all blow over, perhaps when he'd had more sleep, it was also true that Sherlock hadn't misread him.

The next thought was that he didn't think he'd share the first thought with Sherlock for a while.

The _fourth_ thought was fairly interesting. It came on the back of the third thought which was to wonder what would have been so very different these past few nights had he known he, as Sherlock's pretend spouse, was allowed to do as he wanted with him.

The _fourth_ thought was surprisingly graphic.

The fifth thought was that he wouldn't be sharing that one either.

He decided to stop thinking and just walk for a while. He found Sherlock's presence strangely comforting. He got the sensation that he was desperate to ask him questions or say something or explain, but he kept his silence well.

After about an hour and a half of aimless walking, he found a bench and sat down on it and put his head in his hands. He felt Sherlock sit down next to him. He still didn't say anything.

John looked up.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I may have over-reacted."

"Mm. It did feel a little unfair that _you_ were the one who kissed _me_, and _I_ was the one being shouted at."

John giggled and Sherlock grinned.

"OK, I'm sorry," John said. "Yes, when you put it that way, I can see…" He sighed. "The thing is, I like to have some say, to have some minor contribution, to the relationships that I'm in."

"Mm." Sherlock nodded. "You see, I was confused because you've never seemed that choosy."

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry."

John sighed and rubbed his face. "The thing is, Sherlock, I am very tired. I'm slightly… not myself. I don't know what it is and I'm worried that this time next week I'll be back to normal and I don't want to have done anything that I can't undo."

"Mm. Like to suddenly announce that you've been secretly fantasizing about being married to your flatmate. Something like that you mean?"

John giggled again and Sherlock smiled and rubbed his head.

"God, I'd kill for a cigarette right now," he said.

John took his hand and squeezed it slightly.

"You did kiss me though," Sherlock pointed out.

"It was an accident."

Sherlock gave him a look. "John, you can't kiss me by accident. You're half a foot shorter than me! Our lips don't accidentally meet!"

"I'm not that much shorter!"

"You are quite a lot shorter. Short enough for there to be no accidental kissing."

"Mm. Well maybe. You certainly didn't accidentally tell me about our weird, psychotic marriage."

"Oh, that was Mrs Hudson's fault."

"Mrs Hudson's?"

"Yes, I went downstairs in a bit of a panic and told her you'd kissed me and she urged me… no, she pretty much ordered me to express my feelings to you."

"Ah. I wondered where you'd been."

"Yes."

"So perhaps the moral of this story is that you should never, ever listen to Mrs Hudson. I mean, she'd wonderful and delightful and in many ways a saint, but in many other ways, she's as mad as cheese."

"Yes."

They sat still for a while, still hand in hand, watching people walk by.

"Though arguably," John said, "in many other ways, Mrs Hudson is very wise."

"Yes."

"God I'm hungry."

Sherlock looked at him. "Of course. You haven't had anything other than toast to eat today and it's… nearly four."

"As late as that?"

"Yes. John, I was wondering… do you think that if we went to eat something small and light now, you'd like to come out to dinner with me this evening?"

John looked at him for a while.

"You mean like a date?"

"Yes, I mean like a date. That's precisely what I mean."

John turned to look at the people walking by again.

"OK then," he said.

"OK. Good."

They stood up and still hand in hand they started strolling back to Baker Street.

"You should probably know," Sherlock said, "that I consider myself to be a modern and liberated man, and therefore I expect you to pay half."

"Not bloody likely!" John said. "You owe me at least three dinners!"

"I do not!"

"You do!"

"Two and a half at most..."


	31. Nosebleed

**OK, so the last chapter got some questions, so in answer; yes, no, maybe, yes I think so, OK.**

**No, seriously, thank you to everyone who reviewed; it was very kind of you. **

**To address the main concern that was expressed, my intention is that this fic will not go all relationshippy on you, I want to keep the tone as close to how it's always (mostly) been as I can. I just felt that I was so close to the edge of what two, straight, thirty-something-year-olds would do/put up with, that I might as well push them over the edge.**

**So mixed reviews from the 'yeeeey!' to the 'noooooo!'. Some people saying 'that was so unexpected!' and others saying 'saw that coming a mile off!' I think it goes to show I can't please everyone, so I might as well please myself!**

**Anyhow; back to normality.**

**The prompt is; really bad nosebleed – BlueMoonOnTheRise**

* * *

Nosebleed.

Sherlock leaned over the corpse. She must have been pretty, in her not-dead state. This was not an irrelevant thought; he was aware that pretty women have different lives and different opportunities.

Her clothes were good quality. Well, they were expensive and fashionable anyway, but the thin gauze of chiffon over her skirt wasn't really suitable for the woods they were in and the snags and tears in the fragile fabric showed she'd been off the main path for at least some of the time.

He carefully pulled the ripped pocket of her coat to see if there were clues as to what had been left inside. There were tell-tale dimples from where she clipped an ID badge to it when she was working. He doubted they'd find the ID in her bag.

A drop of bright red blood landed on the back of his gloved hand. He stared at it for a moment before looking up at John who was already fumbling with his hands and his nose and swearing like a trooper, so Sherlock decided he didn't need to inform him that his nose was bleeding again.

"Get away!" Anderson screamed running at him. "Get off my crime scene!"

"John! Get back!" Lestrade yelled. "You've got to get back!"

"Get over here!" Sally yelled.

"You're contaminating my crime scene!" Anderson screeched.

Sherlock wandered over to the forensics van and carefully stripped off his gloves and replaced them with a clean pair. He looked over to where John had been successfully bustled outside of the taped off area. Anderson was still shouting, though now he seemed to be directing his ire towards Lestrade for letting 'rank amateurs' inside his precious crime-scene.

John was resting against the bonnet of Lestrade's car, leaning forward and pinching his nose while it ran like a tap. He was foraging through his pockets for anything to stem the flow. He went over and handed John his handkerchief.

"Thang you," John muttered.

Sherlock gave him a look.

"I'm dot doing it deliberately!" John said, bleeding all over the handkerchief.

"I never suggested you were! It's probably best that you wait here though."

He glanced down and found there was another smear of blood on his gloves and he sighed deeply, shook his head sadly, and went to change them again.

Several minutes later he wandered back to Lestrade's car. Lestrade was leaning against the bonnet next to John. He was looking at him sympathetically but not saying much.

"She's a nurse," Sherlock said.

"Oh god," Lestrade groaned. "Is it him again?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think so."

"It's been eight months."

"Yes."

"God. OK. I'll find out where she works. Thank you."

Sherlock nodded and sniffed.

"You too, John," Lestrade said. "Thanks for coming."

"I didn't do buch."

"No, but still. And I apologise for Anderson. I'll talk to him later."

"To be fair," Sherlock said, "Anderson had a point." He looked at John, who looked hurt. "What? You can't bleed at a crime scene, John! You know that!"

"But I…"

"No, no buts, you can't. Remember next time!"

John flushed, which brought just the faintest tinge of pink to his otherwise pale face.

"How did this happen anyway?" Lestrade asked, gesturing towards John's face. His nose and his left cheek were bruised.

"Sherlock hid me with a bunching bag."

"I did not! _You_ lost concentration."

Lestrade looked from one to the other, amused. "What?" he asked.

"I was training," Sherlock said. "All John had to do was to hold the bag steady while I punched it, and he messed that up."

"We'd daken a break! You didn't jeck I was ready!"

"So Sherlock hit the bag and the bag hit you?"

"Yed."

Lestrade was clearly trying not to laugh.

"John literally flew three feet through the air," Sherlock said, also looking amused.

"It was really dot funny," John said, trying to hold back the smile.

"No, it doesn't sound funny at all," Lestrade said, looking away.

"I honestly thought I'd killed him for a second." Sherlock said.

John sniggered.

Sherlock grinned. "Call me if you need anything, Inspector. We'll be off now."

oOo

Sherlock woke up in the darkness. He couldn't work out what, but something was clearly wrong. There was a faint smell in the air. Something sharp, and tinged with metal. He turned and found that the shoulder of his t-shirt was sticky and wet.

John gurgled.

Sherlock sat up quickly and snapped the lamp on. John, John's pillows, John's blankets and a fair amount of John's sheets were all covered in blood.

John was stirring already, but Sherlock shook him anyway.

"John! Wake up!"

John sat up, coughing and gagging. He gazed around blearily, then hurried out of bed, clutching his t-shirt to his face and he dashed downstairs to the bathroom.

Sherlock followed him.

John was holding onto the basin with one hand and clutching a bunch of toilet paper to his nose. It was already sodden and he was dripping into the sink.

Sherlock handed him some more paper and frowned at him.

"These are brand new pyjamas, John!"

John rolled his eyes, and then staggered and held the basin tighter.

"It's really hard to get blood out!" Sherlock told him. He put the lid down on the toilet and sat on it to examine the damage.

John grunted and held his hand out for more toilet paper. Sherlock handed it over and stripped off his t-shirt.

"I'll soak it in cold now. I _might_ be able to salvage it."

John coughed, gagged and threw up into the sink.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"That's not normal," he said.

"Do it'sss," John slurred. "'Lock, gonna deck out."

"You're going to what?"

John fainted.

"Oh."

Sherlock threw his t-shirt into the bath and crouched down next to John. The blood flow was finally slowing, but John didn't seem to want to regain consciousness. Sherlock straightened him out a bit and wondered whether to roll him into the recovery position or onto his back. He decided with the bleeding and the vomiting, recovery was probably safer.

It was only twenty seconds or so before John blinked and woke up, but to Sherlock's mind it felt like hours.

"John? Will you be OK while I go and call an ambulance."

"No. I done deed ad abbulance. It'z just a dose-bleed."

"It clearly isn't!"

"It is! I'b just a bit light headed OK? I thing it's stobbing now." He wiped his nose with his hand and tried hard not to sniff to clear it so he could breathe. "Cad you bring be a cushion for my feed."

"For your feet?"

"Ged the blood back to by head."

"The blood's going to your head! The trouble is, it's pouring out your nose when it gets there! If I prop up your legs, you might empty entirely!"

John raised his eyebrows and gave Sherlock a look.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"OK, cad you helb be to my feed. I'll go and lie dowd sobewhere."

Sherlock frowned but he helped John slowly to his feet. John was surprised as the room fell away dizzily as Sherlock pulled him right onto his shoulder in a fireman's lift and carried him to the living room. He put him down carefully on the sofa.

"I did'n exbect that," John told him.

"It seemed easier than trying to bother with you doddering around."

"Ah. Thangs."

"I want to take you to hospital."

John shook his head. "I don' deed it. By blood bressure drobbed a bit. Cad you get be some water and dea with sugar? Thed I'll be fine."

"I don't believe you."

John sighed and covered his face with his hands. He noticed Sherlock going though, so he moved them and shuffled down the sofa to elevate his feet a bit.

Sherlock came back with the bucket and a glass of water.

"I won' be sigg again. I thing I just swallowed lods of blood."

"Then you won't need to use the bucket will you." Sherlock put it on the floor next to him anyway. "Can you sit up and drink this?"

John let Sherlock lift him into a sitting position and he took a few mouthfuls of water.

"Da," he said.

"There's tea coming." He lowered John down again.

"Thangs."

"I want you to teach me medicine."

"Whad?"

"I don't like that you know more about it than I do."

"Tough."

"No. It's not fair. You say it's just a nosebleed and I have to just take your word for it!"

"Id is just a dose bleed."

"No, you vomited. Perhaps you're concussed. We should have had your head scanned immediately."

"Sherlog, with concussion you don' randobly vomit _seven days_ after the blow."

"Maybe you've had a stroke."

John boggled at him.

"You don't know that you haven't had a stroke," Sherlock said.

"Yes I do! I have done of the symptobs of a stroke!"

"You vomited."

"Well baybe I have salmonella. Or meningitis. Or _bregnancy._"

"I'll go and get your tea." Sherlock said and he walked away.

John looked down at the state of his t-shirt and sighed.

Sherlock came back and put a cup of tea down on the coffee table.

"Here. It's got loads of sugar in it."

"Thanks." John tentatively sniffed and found he just about had an airway clear.

"I'll go and change the bedclothes," Sherlock said.

"Oh leave it for tonight, we can sort it in the morning."

"But it's foul."

"Just sleep in your own bed tonight."

Sherlock looked up, surprised.

"Had you forgotten you had your own bedroom?" John asked, smiling.

"No, of course not! Come on, bring your tea you can drink it in there."

"No, I'll sleep out here. I don't want to bleed all over your bed too."

"Well I don't want you to be out here bleeding to death while I'm in there, asleep."

"I'll be fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him for a while, then his face cleared.

"I have an idea."

He disappeared off down the corridor to his room. John sat up again and started drinking his tea. Sherlock reappeared with a smile.

"My room's ready. Come on. Can you walk OK or…"

"No! Don't carry me again! That was weird!"

"It was practical." He picked up John's tea and peered at John, checking he was steady enough on his feet to walk the few meters to the bedroom. He followed him in and John laughed.

"That's what Mum used to do when I had a tummy bug," he commented.

One side of Sherlock's bed had been covered with bath towels. There was one spread over the pillows, another on the sheets and another over the blanket.

"You did it for me when I had pneumonia. It's where I got the idea. Wait here and I'll get you clean pyjamas."

John nodded and sat down, taking his tea back. He drank it carefully while resisting the urge to pick the blood clots from his nose.

Sherlock came back and threw pyjamas towards John. He found himself a clean t-shirt and got into bed.

"Do you need help changing?" he asked.

"No! I was just drinking my tea."

"I was only offering to help."

"I'm fine." He put the tea down, changed quickly and got into bed.

"What was your mum like?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm? Oh. She was nice. Long suffering from what I recall."

"How old were you when she died."

"Ten."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

John shrugged. "I'm tired. I'm going to try to go back to sleep."

"OK. Try not to bleed to death in my bedroom. Imagine the questions I'd get."

"Noted. Will try."

Sherlock sighed. "One of us needs to get up to turn the light off."

"Yeah. I can't. I might bleed to death on the way."

Sherlock grumbled a curse at him and went to turn the light off. They lay there in the darkness for a moment.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"For next time, if you feel you're about to faint, do you think you could use the words 'I'm going to faint now'? I appreciate I'm learning more of your very special vernacular, but I think there's a time and a place for such things. I think that just before you deck out isn't it."

John sniggered. "Noted. Will do. Night now."

"Goodnight."

* * *

**(Another note – the whole 'deck out' scenario was stolen from the Kal-the-ambulance-man's blog; Trauma Queen. You can google the latter to find it – he's an excellent man and it's well worth a read.)**


	32. Drowning

**Prompt from**** Crazykids121 – Drowning.**

Drowning.

John was worrying Lestrade.

It was a difficult concern to express, especially as John was being polite, quiet and almost outrageously calm. The river police had quickly accepted their additional passengers, not simply because Lestrade had flashed them his badge and commanded that they do so, but also because, probably _mostly_ because, at the moment John was behaving like a calm and rational asset.

He was being commanding without being demanding. He was suggesting without being overbearing. He was obeying every instruction instantly. He was by all appearances, the ideal passenger.

The reason Lestrade was worried, was that he was pretty damned sure that underneath the surface, John was bottling up a whole heap of emotion.

He'd known John for a while now, and he counted him as a friend. He liked the fact that John was usually up for a quick pint or two without having the need to get completely ratted, he could quote the right bits of the Python films at the appropriate times, he was open to the idea moneys with machetes might beat sharks with lasers, and he'd occasionally reduced Lestrade to tears of laughter. He was definitely a friend.

Sherlock, conversely, he'd only just stopped considering as an annoyance.

And over the years, one thing that he'd learned was that John was the ideal person to have close by in a crisis. It's just unfortunate that he was probably the worst person to have around about fifteen minutes after a crisis.

When John Watson started releasing pent-up tension, it could be quite explosive.

It could be funny. John might well make a couple of bad jokes and slowly work himself into something nearing hysteria. On one occasion, Greg had seen him laugh so hard and so long that he'd cried, held onto his side in pain, and very briefly passed out.

Unfortunately, it could also be quite loud, ranty, and once or twice, John had used language that would make a sailor blush, and Lestrade couldn't help but notice the pretty and hopelessly young recruit on board. She looked like she'd be blown down in a stiff breeze. He hoped that she'd be able to cope with an angry doctor should the need arise.

So Lestrade was worried.

This level of calmness was bound to be met by an equal and opposite reaction and he wasn't entirely sure that the boat would survive.

"There!" the man in the bow shouted, pointing at a figure battling to pull himself onto the riverbank.

"No, there," John said, pointing at a dark shape floating on the water.

Lestrade listened to the relayed radio messages sent to the police on the Southbank. He felt briefly disappointed that he wouldn't be part of the chase, but this was immediately swamped by concern for Sherlock.

The boat had come up beside his floating body, and two of the crew with John between them, dragged him onto the boat. Lestrade tried to think without panicking. Sherlock was soaked to the skin, obviously, and his long limbs were hanging limply. He clearly wasn't breathing, but he wasn't bloated or blue yet.

John worked quickly with one of the lifeguards as Sherlock was held briefly upside down and a fair amount of water flowed out of him. Then he was quickly down again and John started breathing for him. Carefully but quickly their two mouths locked together, breathing, then short compressions, then breathing, then compressions.

Lestrade realised he was holding his breath just watching him work and he took a large breath in. He swayed slightly and held onto something to stay upright. He noticed it was the young and pretty recruit and he let go again.

John jerked himself back quickly and half a second later Sherlock thrashed and coughed. John pulled him upright and he coughed more water out of his lungs and took a couple of long, gasping breaths.

Lestrade felt relief flood over him from the toes up. It had just about reached his head when he decided that maybe, OK, _perhaps_ he did like Sherlock a little bit. He _might_ be considered a friend too.

Sherlock tried to get to his feet but was hindered by his soaking clothes and his feet slipping on the boat's floor. And by John, who firmly but gently pushed him down again.

Sherlock coughed again and looked up at Lestrade.

"It was Benson."

"I know," he answered. "It's fine, they…"

"Nobody cares you stupid, little man!" John yelled at Sherlock. He gently pushed him down again.

"But he's…" Sherlock stammered.

"No! He's nothing!" John roared. "Are you OK?" he asked in a calmer voice, Sherlock nodded. "I'll keep your coat safe but take it off now." He took Sherlock's pulse and tilted his head back and checked his eyes.

"What in God's name were you thinking of!" he screamed again, while gently pulling Sherlock's coat from him.

Sherlock tried to get up again and John held him down again.

"You're not going anywhere!"

"But…"

"No! No buts! You weren't breathing! You're staying right there!"

"I'm…"

Lestrade watched and listened as John told Sherlock exactly what he was. It took a while. There was a moment when he wondered whether John would stop breathing too. He'd turned puce. All the while he was taking the more sodden items of clothing off Sherlock, and towelling him down, rubbing his hair dry and checking his pulse. He wrapped him in a soft, warm blanket.

Sherlock was slowly pulling his focus together. Lestrade wonder whether he was going to offer up any form of defence at all. He hoped not.

He glanced around the boat and four crew-members were studiously looking at anything that wasn't a sodden detective or a raving doctor.

The young woman he was so concerned about was very, very red.

He cleared his throat.

"Er, sorry. I think he's a bit…" he muttered.

"It's fine," she squeaked.

He nodded. "Are we going far?" he asked the man at the helm.

"There's an ambulance waiting at the next base," he said, very carefully not looking at John or Sherlock.

There was a sudden quiet as Sherlock scrambled up against the side of the boat to vomit a large amount of the Thames back into the Thames. John rubbed his back and said something that Lestrade couldn't here. After a moment Sherlock leant back against John and John held him closely and tried to rub some warmth into his arms.

"I thought that was it for a minute there," Sherlock said, through his coughing. "I thought about you a lot."

John nodded, wrapped his arms around Sherlock and gently kissed his head.

Lestrade looked away quickly and spent a couple of seconds realigning certain important things in his head.

The base loomed into view and there was the welcome glow of blue flashing lights. At they got closer to the ramp, he could see an ambulance crew with a trolley waiting for them.

"I'm not getting on the stretcher," Sherlock said.

"You're a bloody annoying man," John replied.

Lestrade wondered, if they both locked horns on the issue, who would win?

As it was, John backed down and helped Sherlock walk on his own two legs to the ambulance. He'd started talking medic-babble to the paramedic before he'd even reached dry land. Sherlock in return had walked without complaint and had allowed the paramedic to start attaching him to various machines.

Lestrade called the land police to get an update.

Five minutes later he walked up to where John and Sherlock were sitting, side by side in the ambulance.

"Feel better now?" he asked John.

"Yes, thank you."

"Him?" Sherlock said. "I was the one who drowned!"

"Yeah. I care less about you," Lestrade said.

"Well _I_ just solved your mystery!"

"Yes you did, and the Metropolitan Police Force once again express their thanks to you."

"Have you got Benson?"

"Yep. He was picked up almost immediately and he's being held at Southwark Police Station."

"Good," Sherlock said getting up. "I'll come with you to…"

"No you won't," John said.

"But I need to…"

"No you don't."

"But _John_…"

"No."

"But there's…"

"No."

"I'm perfectly…"

"No."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade.

"Will you tell him? I'm perfectly fine! I'm better than fine! Look! See how well I'm breathing!"

Sherlock did an exaggerated and fast set of breaths. He started coughing.

He continued coughing as Lestrade and John watched him.

He swayed slightly through the coughing and John caught him and guided him down to the ambulance step again.

"Yeah," John said.

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock croaked.

"You _drowned,_" John said. "The correct treatment for drowning is 48 hours observation, ideally in bed. I will compromise on the not taking you to hospital thing, but you're going home now."

"But…"

"No."

Sherlock sighed.

Lestrade smiled at John. "Will he be well enough for a visitor later? I'll come round and fill you in on all the missing details."

John nodded and Sherlock sulked.

"Drink tonight?" Lestrade asked.

"I'd better not. I have a sneaking suspicion I'm going to be quite occupied with _him_ later."

Lestrade blushed and John rolled his eyes.

"Because he'll have me run around for drinks and cake and stuff! Not for anything else!"

Lestrade smiled and nodded and noticed that Sherlock was staring at him intently. He nodded. "OK, I'll see you both later then. Thank you, Sherlock, and well done, John! That was quite a display you put on there. I think we all learned a couple of new phrases, so thank you."

John blushed and grinned.

Lestrade walked away and listened to the pair of them bickering about ambulances and taxis until he was out of earshot.


	33. Panic

**Prompted by the lovely Darth Jackie, and the delightful Katkin.**

* * *

Panic.

John followed Sherlock into the lift.

One of the many things that had simplified for him lately was how he travelled in lifts. Previously, he had walked in, found something to hold on to, held his breath, and just got it over with as quietly as possible, ideally without Sherlock noticing that he really didn't want to be there. Since his… _thing_ with Sherlock started, this had changed slightly to 'walk in, find Sherlock's hand to hold onto, hold breath, and just get it over with'.

He did not like lifts.

He accepted that there were times that lifts were necessary, so he'd developed these few coping mechanisms for times when using the stairs was inappropriate, but he didn't like them.

It wasn't actual claustrophobia as far as he was concerned. He didn't generally dislike small, confined areas. He just didn't particularly like small, confined areas that were moving up and down. Glass lifts were a particular trial for him. Being able to see the inner workings of the lift made him feel mildly sick to his stomach. He also wasn't keen on other people being in the lift with him. Not because they took up space and air, but because people could be so damned unpredictable at times.

He had to admit, he hadn't experienced anyone acting particularly erratically in the brief amount of time he'd spent in lifts, but he didn't like the feeling that if they _did_ choose to strip naked and start dancing a samba, he'd be stuck in the lift with them while they did so.

Usually all of this remained in the back of his mind, and he'd simply get into a lift using the 'in, hold hand, hold breath, out,' routine and the world would continue spinning quite happily. But he didn't _like_ lifts.

So while following Sherlock into the lift at Holland Park Tube Station, and while groping for his hand, he wasn't really thinking of anything beyond 'God it's late, why does Lestrade call us when it's so pigging _late?_ Does he not know we have _lives_ and things to do in the evening? At least no other poor sod is here at this time.' He yawned widely as Sherlock rocked back and forth on his feet, and things were generally all well and good until with an ominous 'clang' the lift stopped.

The door didn't open.

Sherlock looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

"I think the lift's stopped," John said to him and was instantly rewarded by and eye-roll and a sigh.

Sherlock tried to let go of his hand, but ended up needing to shake John off with a frown.

He calmly headed towards the 'emergency instructions' panel and pressed the call button for assistance. It was not answered, so he called again. It was still not answered so with a world-weary sign he checked his phone for signal, and finding that he was in range he called Lestrade.

"We're stuck in a lift at Holland Park Station," he barked when Lestrade answered. "There's no-one answering the emergency button, so could you get someone to let us out?... Surprisingly, Inspector, we're not finding it quite as funny as that." He hung up crossly and turned around to John.

John was pale, wedged into a corner, struggling to breathe and quivering slightly.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"Yeah! Fine!" John clenched his fists a couple of times.

John looked suspiciously like he was having an asthma attack.

"I'm sure we'll be freed soon," Sherlock told him.

"I know! I'm fine!"

"John…?"

"Shit! God!" John tried very hard to control his breathing. He rubbed his face with quivering hands.

Sherlock walked to him calmly and put a hand on his arm.

"We're going to be fine, John," he said.

John laughed in a hysterical fashion.

"Sorry!" he said. "Don't be soothing. You can't do soothing."

"I can do soothing!" he patted John's arm. "You'll feel better soon." He smiled his widest smile.

"I think I'm going to throw up," John mumbled.

"Oh God! Please don't!"

"Um…" John rubbed his face again and tried again to breathe calmly. He swallowed.

"No, seriously, don't throw up!" Sherlock told him.

"Um…" John held a hand against his forehead and shivered.

"John, seriously, nothing about this situation would be improved by you being sick!"

John slowly slid down the lift wall until he was sitting in the corner. He put his head on his knees and concentrated very hard on not being sick.

He compromised by starting to cry a bit.

"Oh hell," Sherlock said. "That's nearly as bad!"

John snorted and wiped his eyes. "Sorry. I really, _really_ hate lifts."

"So I see." Sherlock said. "You should know that I'd sit on the floor and comfort you somehow, but the floor really doesn't look sanitary."

"Thanks. It's the thought that counts."

"Yes."

Sherlock wandered back to the emergency bell and pressed it again. There was no answer. He re-called Lestrade.

"Is someone on their way?" he snapped. "I don't care that it's late! We need to get out of the lift _now_! It's an emergency! John's…" he glanced at John trying to think of the best thing to say. 'John's not well. No! He doesn't need an ambulance, he just needs to get out of this damned lift! Fine! Work faster!"

He hung up again.

"Have you got any mints?" John asked.

"Mints?"

"Yeah, eating mints sometimes helps with the nausea."

"You're still nauseous?"

"Yes." He grimaced and gagged but didn't vomit. "Sorry. So, mints?"

"No, I haven't got any." He looked at John and considered his options. "We could… well, there's nobody here, we're not in public, there are no cameras…" he raised his eyebrows.

John stared at him blankly.

"I mean," Sherlock said, "you might find it pleasantly distracting…"

"Sex?" John yelled. "Really? Seriously, Sherlock! I'm tense as anything, I'm trying really hard to neither pee, nor chuck up everywhere, and you think that this might be a good time to start…. No! Just no, Sherlock!"

"Sorry."

"Yeah."

"If it helps, I'm fairly sure this lift has been peed in before, and I wouldn't tell anyone if you urinated."

John glared. "It doesn't help."

"OK."

Sherlock decided it might be time for self-sacrifice and he sat down on the floor next to John. He put his arm around him but tried not to be comforting or lewd. He was quickly bored and he sighed.

"What's brown and sticky?" he asked.

"What?" John said.

"A stick."

"Oh." John frowned.

"Three men walk into a bar," Sherlock said. "Which is odd, because you'd expect the third one to notice it."

John snorted.

"OK, you'll need to apply yourself for this one. A frog walks into the bank and waits in the queue. Miss Patricia Whack calls him over and asks how the bank can help him today. 'I'd like to borrow ten grand', the frog says. 'OK', she says, 'what's your name'. 'My name's Kermit Jagger, and I need ten grand. Here's my collateral,' and he hands her a china miniature of a dancer. She looks at it and tells him that it's a bit of an odd request so she tells him she needs to check with her manager. She goes up to the manager and tells the story of Kermit and the ten grand and hands him the little ornament that Kermit had given her. He agrees the loan instantly. She's surprised and takes back the statue. "What is it?" she asks, assuming this thing must be worth a fortune. Do you know what the manager said?"

"I honestly don't know."

"He said 'It's a nick-nack, Patty Whack, give the frog a loan. His old man's a rolling stone."'

John giggled and Sherlock smiled at him.

"Your turn."

"No, I was in the army, most of the jokes I know are completely inappropriate."

"Have you met me? Most of my _self_ is completely inappropriate!"

"No, I'm going to think of a clean one. Give me a minute."

He thought for a while, then shuddered and cleared his throat and wiped his face again.

"How do you make a sausage roll?" Sherlock asked him.

"I don't know," he whispered. "Please tell me."

"Push it down a hill. Why did the banana go to the doctor's?"

"I know! Because he wasn't peeling very well!"

Sherlock giggled. John relaxed slightly and leant against Sherlock. Sherlock hugged him slightly closer.

"Why did the…" he broke off as a noise sounded above them.

John winced and tensed again so Sherlock didn't let him go but called up a halloo.

"Hello!" someone called back from above. "You OK in there?"

"We're fine," Sherlock called. "Be pleased to get out now though!"

"Give us ten minutes!"

Sherlock settled down with John. John brushed his hand through his hair a few times and hummed a brief tune.

"You're all right," Sherlock murmured, holding on to him.

John nodded, then shook his head.

"No, I can't help it; I am going to be sick."

"No you're not."

"Um."

"No, you're fine. OK? Fine."

John whimpered.

"Guys?" a voice called from above. "We're there, stand firm and we'll get you going again."

Sherlock stood up and pulled John up too. He put his arms around him and held his head against his shoulder. There was a brief moment of tension as the lift shuddered, then it smoothly headed up. John breathed a long, slow breath.

They separated as the lift doors open and turned to see five firemen standing and waiting for them.

"Hello," Sherlock said.

"You're out then," a fireman commented.

"We're we on fire?" John asked.

"No. But we'll come out for stuck lifts if there's a pressing need. Apparently there was. Do you want a lift to where the police team are?"

Sherlock looked at John who was still looking pale and clammy.

"No, it's not far. We'll walk. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Give my best to Inspector Lestrade. You can tell him we're even now."

Sherlock nodded. "Thanks again. Good evening."

He led John out of the station and along the road. They'd gone about twenty meters before John pulled away and vomited copiously into the gutter. Sherlock stood away and watched him for a moment before nipping into a newsagent for a bottle of water. When he came out again, John was leaning against a tree.

"Do you want to go home?" Sherlock asked, handing him the water.

"No, I'm fine now."

"But you were just sick."

"Yes, and now I'm fine. The water will sort me out. Come on, let's go."

"You're insane."

"Takes one to know one."

Sherlock grinned and they fell into pace together and walked to the block of flats where Lestrade was waiting. He met them outside the complex and walked them towards the relevant block, chatting along the way about the complexities of the scene. He reached the door, walked through and pressed the button for the lift.

"No way," John said. "I'm using the stairs."

"John, it's eight floors up," Lestrade told him.

"Then I'll see you eight floors up."

"John," Sherlock said, "think about it! How unlikely is it that you'd be stuck in a lift twice in one evening."

"Very unlikely. Impossible, in fact, because I'm using the stairs."

He headed to the stairwell.

The lift arrived and the door opened half way. It relayed on itself a few times before closing again. Then it opened fully with a clang.

Lestrade pulled a face and looked at Sherlock. "I'll use the stairs."

"Yep. I think I will too."


	34. Heart Attack

**TheLilyAndTheRose requested this one, and as she's on a deadline, I'm jumping it up the queue. (The queue only exists in my head, by the way, I tend to write prompts in the order in which they start doing fun things in my head.)**

**It also includes prompts from MyriadProBold and HOS70, requesting sick Lestrade.**

**In advance, I'd like to apologise to the two readers I know who have experience of this, and anyone that I don't know about too. Please feel free to skip ahead, and know that you're regularly in my thoughts and prayers.**

**And once again – the no-medical-knowledge general disclaimer applies.**

**Finally, apologies for not replying to all the reviews on the last chapter - damned work kept interrupting and I lost track of what I had and hadn't done. I promise I'll reply to everyone this chapter!**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Heart Attack.

John had lost track of what this precise argument was about. By now he was also unclear about who was on whose side.

Sherlock, Donovan and Anderson were _still_ all talking, often at the same time. There had been a couple of breaks so that people could move from crime-scene to morgue, and then to Scotland Yard, and so that meals could be consumed, and so that people could sleep, but then the three would come together and they'd continued as if they'd never left off at all.

From what he could make out Sally had some issue with Anderson, which seemed to stem from him not labelling evidence bags correctly. Maybe. Or it could have been something else entirely. This had led to Anderson complaining in a general way about Sherlock (and John) being allowed onto crime scenes at all.

Sally then agreed with Anderson, and both of them had turned on Sherlock.

This had been a mistake.

Sherlock had happily torn them both to shreds and had once again raised the inappropriate nature of their private lives for people in their positions.

Anderson had claimed that their relationship was long over, and that he was now living quite happily with his wife and that he would be doing for a long, long time to come, thank you very much.

This had also been a mistake.

Sally had then turned on Anderson and stated a few home truths about the delightful man, and she suggested his wife could happily keep him. She had also commented that it was a surprise that he wanted to work on his marriage, given his generaly MO of letting things finish prematurely.

Anderson had bitten back, not about Sally, but had randomly made a reference to Sherlock's sobriety, possibly as a way of getting Sally back on side. Sally had ignored him, though John very nearly waded in at that point, and would have done so had Sherlock not shot him a warning look and had quite ably and calmly responded with a question as to what they might find if they were to examine some of Anderson's marvellous hair.

This had taken three days.

All of it had been bubbling along just underneath the surface of their fairly mundane bitching and sniping about the case and work ethics and materials and the appropriate use of text messages and who should and should not be allowed inside police cordons and the morgue and so on and so forth. It had not helped that this was a particularly nasty and time-critical case and everybody was feeling the pressure.

At this point, whenever they started on each other, John just found somewhere to sit and waited until they tired (hadn't happened yet) or stormed of in different directions (happened seven times and counting).

He was beginning to feel concerned about Lestrade though. He was more tired than John had seen him before. He was in no mood for general chat or jokes and John was happy to leave him alone to do his job, confident that he'd be back to normal when the case was over and he'd had a couple of days to rest.

Unfortunately, whenever he came into the eye-line of any of the other three, they would look to him to mediate any tiny point, and would quietly crow in victory if he vaguely agreed with them. Sherlock was definitely winning on points, which was irritating Sally who was a close second (which was irritating Sherlock), and Anderson, who didn't seem to be getting anything right at all. Anderson had started to mutter threats about tendering his resignation.

The strain on Lestrade was beginning to tell, and John had noticed him walk away when he'd spotted them on a number of occasions.

It was slightly unfortunate that this particular row was going on at Sally's desk, which was just outside of Lestrade's office, so he had no choice but to walk past them when he'd finished interviewing the boyfriend.

He appeared and four people turned to look at him. Three of them instantly started speaking.

"Inspector! This is…"

"Inspector! I really think…"

"Inspector! Will you tell him…"

The fourth very quietly assessed Lestrade's colour (pale, dull grey-green around his jaw), his steadiness (wobbly, leaning one hand on the wall, trying to look casual), how regularly he was swallowing (regularly, probable nausea), and the general texture of his skin (saggy, slightly sweaty, glassy eyes).

Lestrade raised a hand for quiet. He was ignored.

"Guys!" he shouted. "Shut up! Now listen, all of you, I know that this has been trying for everyone but we're getting close now." He needed to pause to take a couple of breaths at this point. "Sally, any chance you could get me some water?"

"I'm not a tea-girl!"

"I know, I just…"

"But Inspector!" Anderson said. "This is all…"

John didn't find out what was all. He hopped down from the desk he was sitting on, pushed roughly through the three disputants, and took Lestrade firmly by the elbow and led him into his office. He tried to push the door closed behind him but he wasn't quick enough for Sherlock. Sherlock was at least able to shut the door on the other two.

"John, I'm fine," Lestrade muttered as John pushed him onto the small sofa in his office.

"That's good then," John replied. "Sherlock can you pull the blinds and shut the door? Ideally from the other side of it."

Sherlock obeyed, silently, blocking out the stares of the other two as they gazed through the glass walls. He stayed in the corner of the room though.

John squatted down beside Lestrade. He took his wrist and found his pulse.

"Where's the pain?" He asked.

"Stomach. It's fine though, I think I've just eaten something bad. Do you have any antacids?"

"It's not in your stomach," John said. He pulled out his phone and started to dial.

"John, I'm fine…" Greg paused for breath. "Shit, could you please help me to the loo?" He covered his face with a hand.

"No, you won't make it." John handed his phone to Sherlock and grabbed Lestrade's bin from behind his desk.

"Can't hurl in the bin!" Greg whispered. "The cleaners!"

"I'll sort it out later. Lie still now."

"John? What do I tell them?" Sherlock asked.

"Suspected MI. Cardiac arrhythmia."

Lestrade lurched and John focussed on supporting his head while he threw up into the bin. He heard Sherlock say that there was a doctor present.

"I have no kit!" he shouted.

Sherlock paused and John held his hand out for the phone. Sherlock handed it over looking like a guilty child.

"My bag," John said to Sherlock. "There's aspirin. Find it." He turned to the phone. "Yep, hi, I'm Doctor John Watson. I have no means to stabilise; we need here someone very fast."

He wedged his phone under against his shoulder while he helped Lestrade roll to throw up again, and Sherlock handed a box of aspirin over. Sherlock gently held the phone to John's ear. There was a tentative knock on the office door.

John put the aspirin down and took back the phone. Sherlock answered the door to Sally, who looked desperately concerned.

"I got that water," she said, handing Sherlock a plastic, vending-machine cup. She tried to see into the room, but Sherlock frowned and pushed the door slightly.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Sally?" John called. "I need you to find the head of first aid here. I need you to ask if he has a portable de-fib, if he does, bring it here. Sherlock? Give me the water and go and wait at the front for the paramedic. Bring him straight here. Go quickly!"

They ran.

"I'm sorry," John said down the phone, "I'm going to need to put you on speaker." He switched his phone and dropped it to the floor. He fumbled with the aspirin and gave two to Greg with the water. He wasn't convinced he'd stomach it.

"ETA is five minutes," the control room said. "Sorry, fuckers and blocked the road at Caxton street. I've dispatched a rapid response too."

John silently cursed.

"John?" Greg murmured, "is this it? Is this curtains?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"I don't feel great."

"Be that as it may, there's absolutely no way you're dying right now."

"John…"

"No, I won't have it. I won't be left alone to deal with the three stooges by myself."

Lestrade gave a ghost of a smile and then lay still.

The office door opened and a man John had never seen before walked in carrying a small, boxed auto-defibrillator machine.

"Oh, fantastic!" John said, reaching for it.

"You're not insured to use it," the man said, holding it away.

John gaped. "I don't give a rat's arse!" he yelled. "I've used one before! Have you?"

"I'm trained…"

"Give it here now! And get the fuck out!"

"Give it him," Sally said.

The precious box finally arrived in John's hands. The man didn't leave but looked on, as did Sally.

"ETA two minutes," the control room said.

John had already rooted through the box and found everything he needed and relief trickled over him. He started unbuttoning Greg's shirt.

"I don't need an audience!" he snapped. "One stay."

Sally left without argument and closed the door again. John found he had nothing to say to the first aider. He hooked Greg to the miniature ECG and was half gratified and half disappointed that his diagnosis was correct. The monitor flashed with the suggestion that the patient needed a shock.

"No shit," John grumbled at it. "Clear," he said automatically, even though the first-aider was standing two meters away. He hit the button and watched as the machine dispensed a shock.

"Christ!" Lestrade yelled.

"Well if you'd just manage to faint, you wouldn't know about it," John said, watching the monitor on the machine. "Just how little oxygen does your brain need anyway?"

"Don' use if f'r much," he muttered.

"There's another one coming," John told him. The ambulance crew walked in just as John hit the button again. Sherlock trailed in after them.

"Right, any non-medical personnel leave now!" John barked. Sherlock pulled the first aider from the room.

John didn't take his eyes from the little monitor as he started to give the paramedics all the facts and figures.

"Gentlemen," he said finally, "we have achieved normal sinus rhythm." He smiled broadly and sat back on the floor.

"John…?" Lestrade breathed.

"Still with us then, mate?" John said. "I should probably tell you I've just saved your life. I'm not going to let you forget that soon, just so you know."

Greg couldn't reply as an oxygen mask was slipped over his head. The little machine was bundled onto the stretcher with him and he was covered under a blanket.

"I'll come with you to the hospital," John said. "I'll call Catherine from there when you're settled in, OK?"

There was a faint nod and the ambulance crew lifted the stretcher and started to carry him out.

John followed them and found Sherlock, Sally, Anderson and the first aid man waiting in Sally's den. There were three concerned looks as Lestrade was carried past them. There was one frown.

"I'll call you from the hospital, but we're stable right now," John said.

There were three deep, relieved breaths, and one frown.

"Where did my de-fib go?" The first aider asked.

"For God's sake, Andy!" Sally said. "Get a grip, won't you?"

"Are you an imbecile, man?" Sherlock snapped.

"Have a little appreciation for the fact that the Inspector _isn't dead._" Anderson snarled.

John smiled as he left Andy to take the collective flak from his three, delightful colleagues.


	35. Blind

**Apologies for the delay! I have been using my time well, and getting on with novel 2. Thank you once again for the reviews and for reading! Just a reminder, my only medical training is a one week 'first aid at work' course (certificate now expired) at which the most entertaining aspect was that the two trainers could barely agree on the best way to treat anything, so yes, this whole thing will be absolutely littered with mistakes! Still, fun though!**

**This is probably my most often requested malady, most recently (I think) from MyriadProBold and NikkiJustTalk. Though I'm fairly sure a couple of other people did too, before I became intelligent enough to copy prompts to a word doc. **

**Anyhow; I've struggled a bit because I've read three other Blind fics and I don't want to get half way through writing and realise that I'm doing exactly what someone else has done.**

**Hopefully, this will work though.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Blind

John panted as he ran. They were chasing two men. Sherlock had already overtaken the slower one, in order to pursue the faster. John had been left with the slow one, and let's be reasonable, the _slow_ one was quite fast.

He knew that Lestrade was somewhere behind him, but he wasn't sure how far off, and he desperately hoped he wasn't running too fast and straining himself. He didn't turn around to check. He was only just keeping a pace with this youth.

Suddenly the boy turned and for a moment John thought he must surely grab him now. He reached out without slowing. The boy grinned an evil grin and produced a blowpipe from nowhere. He blew a handful of dust at him, before turning and running again. The incident was over in two seconds.

John managed another three paces before he was forced to stop, coughing and choking and blinking hard.

His eyes were quickly burning and he wondered if he'd been covered with pepper, but the texture in his mouth was more grating. More like sand, or grit.

He rubbed at his eyes but they were very tender now. Blinking made it worse.

A sudden chill went over him and he dropped to the floor, desperately spitting the blood from his mouth.

It was glass.

Roughly ground glass blown into his face. He held his eyes closed and coughed and spat.

"John?" It was Lestrade's voice. "John, what's… bloody hell! Christ!"

A hand was on his shoulder and he felt Lestrade squatting next to him. His head was very gently moved and Lestrade swore again. From the reaction John guessed that his eyes were bleeding, and that, mixed with the tears, and the blood from his mouth, had probably looking a right state.

He suddenly felt freezing and exhausted as his body started to go into shock.

He tried hard to control his breathing and to avoid crying or fainting. He focussed on Greg's voice. He was clearly requesting an ambulance and explaining an attack but he was unclear about what had happened. His hand was almost painfully gripping John's shoulder.

"It was glass," he mumbled.

"Sorry, hold on a second," Lestrade said. "John? What was that?"

"It was glass in my feyes, sorry, face. And eyes. I'll be fine. I need to go… um… I need an A&E. Actually, Moorfields would be…"

He was overcome with the need to sob and panicked about moving his eyes even slightly. He shivered.

"Hang on," Lestrade said. There was an odd noise, and someone else seemed to be there and John struggled to make sense of it. Then he felt the weight of something being wrapped around him, and he realised it was Greg's coat, and that he had put his phone onto speaker and put it down. He could hear the emergency coordinator asking about him.

"What the hell happened?"

Sherlock's voice. John had entirely missed the sound of him approaching. His voice sounded cross.

"John?"

No, not just cross; concerned. John breathed again.

"I'm fine…" he mumbled before he had to stop talking.

The pain in his eyes was almost unbearable now. He wished he'd just go ahead and faint.

"We think it was glass," Lestrade said.

"Glass?"

There was a… feeling. The air around him changed.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was closer now, quieter and calmer.

John reached out to where he thought Sherlock's face would be, but got a handful of lapel.

Sherlock caught his hand and held it.

"There's an ambulance coming," Sherlock told him.

"Mm."

Sherlock's thumb stroked his hand gently, but otherwise he didn't touch him. He reminded himself that he must look pretty grim.

There was the sound of a siren that passed in front of them and disappeared into the distance and John felt crushing disappointment. Once again, he fought the need to cry. His eyes were watering desperately now and he risked a brief blink but regretted it.

In the split second his eyes were open all he saw was piercing light and redness. He closed his eyes painfully. He shivered again.

"Can he lie back?" Lestrade asked.

"John, I'm putting my coat behind you. Can you lie down on it?"

John tentatively tried to lie down. Sherlock's hand appeared against his head and he was slowly guided down, and then the hand was withdrawn.

John struggled to breathe again, and the hand that was being held by Sherlock's was squeezed slightly. He put his free hand to his face and tentatively wiped some of the tears that were there.

"Probably best you don't touch it too much," Lestrade said. "The ambulance is a minute away."

"It's approaching you now," the control lady said down the phone.

There was the sound of another siren, which was suddenly turned off. There were people. John tried desperately to concentrate enough to answer their questions. He didn't think he had swallowed any, he wasn't sure whether he had inhaled any, his breathing wasn't painful. The problem was almost exclusively in his eyes.

He was able to get into the ambulance using his own two legs, guided gently and carefully by the crew. He got the impression Sherlock was there too, but he was doing a remarkable job of staying out of the way, and John didn't like to call out for him. He lay down on the stretcher and let them take him to Moorfields.

oOo

Sherlock followed John into the house trying desperately not to fuss around him like a mother hen.

John walked up the stairs steadily but heavily. He seemed to need to force himself to move forward. He shuffled and reached out for the sofa and again Sherlock didn't help him to find it. He got the impression that John wanted to get around by himself as far as was possible.

That was a guess though. John had said hardly anything as his eyes were repeatedly bathed, peered at, examined, and then covered with large, padded dressings. When the consultant had asked whether he preferred to stay in the hospital while his eyes were bandaged, he had said that was fine. When Sherlock had insisted that surely he'd be more comfortable if he was at home, he had agreed with him too. The doctors were happy either way, as long as there would be somebody at home with John, certainly for the first few days.

Sherlock had assured them that he wouldn't leave John's side. John had nodded his agreement. Since then, Sherlock had been able to get little more than a dull 'yes' or 'no' to any of his questions.

He watched him now as he crept along the sofa and sat down at the furthest end. Sherlock hung up both coats and came to look at him. John was frowning at nothing and wrapping the hem of his jumper around his fingers. The jumper was marked with bloody blotches but Sherlock decided not to mention this immediately.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked, briskly.

"Please."

Sherlock went to make it and waited until the kettle was at its noisiest to sigh deeply.

He had desperately wanted John home, but he'd been floundering before he'd even got him into the flat.

The nurse at the hospital had been marvellous. She'd given him guidance about how to best help John. One of the things she'd been determined about was the necessity to let John take his arm while walking about. He mustn't grab and drag John around, but wait and allow himself to be followed. The concept was almost alien to him.

John had got out of the taxi on his own volition, but had then stood motionless on the pavement, failing entirely to take Sherlock's arm. Sherlock had taken him by the elbow and pushed him into the house as he would on any other occasion and he'd been cursing himself for it since.

He took the tea into the front room and put it on the coffee table.

"Tea's just in front of you," he said.

"Mm. Thanks."

John made no move to find it for himself, and Sherlock felt it would be pushy to hand it to him. He sat down on the other end of the sofa.

He almost wished he'd allowed John to stay in the hospital for a few days.

"Do you want the telly on?" he asked.

"I'm fine either way."

Sherlock turned it on and tried to find something not overly visual. He settled for a documentary about the Elizabethans.

John took his shoes off and put his feet onto the sofa and wrapped his arms around his legs.

Sherlock cursed himself for not having the slightest clue what to say.

"Don't forget your tea," he said quietly.

"No. I won't." John put his feet down and tentatively reached out for it.

Sherlock hoped it wouldn't be too obvious that he'd only filled it three quarters full, just in case.

John found it, lifted it without spilling and drank some. He very carefully put it down again.

"Actually, I'm pretty tired. I think I might turn in."

"Oh! OK, of course. Didn't you want something to eat first though?"

"No. I'm not particularly hungry."

"OK. Let's go up then."

John hesitated.

"Actually, Sherlock, would you mind sleeping in your own room tonight?"

Sherlock was surprised by how much that stung.

"No, not at all," he said. "Would you rather switch rooms tonight though? Would it be better if you were downstairs?"

"No, I can manage. Thank you."

"Let me at least help you to your room."

"I'm fine."

"I know." He got up and stood there, waiting.

John sighed but got up and walked into Sherlock. Sherlock didn't move, but had to virtually elbow John in the chest before he reached out for Sherlock's arm. As soon as he'd taken it, Sherlock's free hand rested over his. He walked up the stairs to John's bedroom and allowed John to be guided by his movements. John let go of him as soon as he'd reached the room and found his own way to the bed. He sat down on it.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"For what? You haven't anything to be sorry about!"

"No."

Sherlock waited.

"I'm quite worried," John said calmly. "It's distracting me. That's all it is. I just want to be by myself for a bit."

"You're not as optimistic as the doctor was, are you."

John shook his head.

"I know the stuff. Well, I don't know it as well as the experts at Moorfields, but I'd tell a patient the same. If the damage is restricted to the cornea, and the scratches aren't too deep, it's likely they'll heal well. I know that, I really do but… well, I know some of the abrasions were deeper. I know there's a chance of scarring. I know that if that happens, then the only treatment is a transplant. I was surprised about how little I could see, Sherlock. Even after they'd cleaned them and the bleeding had stopped, I was surprised at how little I could see."

Sherlock came into the room.

"If it was me, you'd tell me to take one day at a time, and to wait and see, and to not be impatient. That's what you'd say."

John smiled a soulless smile.

"Yes. And I'd be right too. It's just tonight I'm tired and I need to wallow in my misery for a bit."

"And you need to do that alone?"

John turned his head away slightly.

"Sorry," Sherlock said. "Of course, it's fine." He went to John's chest of drawers. "Which pyjamas do you want?"

"I really don't mind."

"Stripy grey then." He took them to John and placed them in his lap. He tentatively reached out and ran his hand through John's hair.

John relaxed at once and leaned into the touch. Sherlock left his hand where it was for a moment and John took it and held onto it.

"Sherlock, I need you to understand, I love the feeling of wanting you. Wanting you, desiring you, it's… it's a good feeling. In contrast, the feeling of needing you is vile. I don't want to become one of the many things that slow you down."

Sherlock stood still for a while and processed this. He nodded to himself, then realising that that was getting him nowhere he cleared his throat.

"We're not going to worry about it, John. This isn't going to be permanent. We'll decide together what I am and am not capable of managing as the need arises, but at the moment, this is a short term thing, and we'll both cope with it. Goodnight now. If you need anything, just yell. I'll hear you, OK?"

"OK, thank you."

Sherlock went back down to the living room, sat down on the sofa, and put his head in his hands. When that didn't make him feel any better, he threw himself back in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a while. He started to think of all the various things that they could put into place should John be permanently blind.

Ten minutes later and he was pondering the idea of textured plates to replace their plain ones and was wondering if there were any benefits to this when he was disturbed by a shuffling noise upstairs. He sprang up and went into the hallway.

"John? Are you OK?"

John appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just… I changed my mind."

"About what?"

"About being by myself. It's rubbish. Do you mind if I bunk in with you."

Sherlock smiled. "No, it's fine. My room though. It's probably more practical."

He dashed up the stairs and let John take his arm to guide him down.

oOo

Day Two.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm? What? Where are you? What are you doing in the kitchen?" Sherlock entered the kitchen to fuss over John for a bit. John was standing by the fridge, holding a sheep brain and the top of its spinal cord in his bare hands.

"I was hungry, I thought I'd make a snack," John told him.

"I'll do it."

"I'm fine."

Sherlock sighed. He was finding it difficult to tell John that his need to be independent was actually causing more problems than if he just sat still and let other people do things for him.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just tell me, what am I holding in my hands?"

"It's…"

"It smells like meat. What cut is this?"

"What cut were you looking for?"

"I don't know. I was wondering if we had bacon and I hit upon this. Is it a liver or something? It's really odd. Squishy."

"Yeah, perhaps put it down now and I'll find you something to eat."

"I can cope, Sherlock! Just tell me what it is and I'll cook it… wait. This is something grim, isn't it?"

"No! No not at all."

"Oh god, Sherlock! What the hell is it? Can you at least tell me if it's human?"

"It's not human."

"Marvellous."

"Put it in here."

"In where?"

"I'm holding a bowl. Here." He guided John's hand over it and John dropped it in. It made a slight gloopy sound. "You might want to wash your hands."

John sighed and frowned at him and Sherlock suspected that underneath the bandages there might be A Look going on. John turned though and felt his way around the kitchen table to the sink. As he turned the tap off and turned around, he knocked a glass to the floor.

Sherlock swore quietly.

"I'm sorry," John said.

"It's fine. It's not your fault; I shouldn't have left it there." He hadn't left it there.

"Let me sweep it up."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, of course you can't!"

John pouted but didn't say anything he started to shuffle away but stood on a piece of glass and yelped.

"Don't move!" Sherlock said, rushing to get a dustpan and brush from under the sink. "Just wait there, please, I'll sort you out in a second."

He swept the shards of glass from around John's feet while John leant against the table with his left foot slightly in the air, still pouting.

He finished the sweeping and he threw the glass shards into the bin.

"Let me see your foot."

John obligingly lifted it slightly higher. It was a shallow cut, clean of glass, bleeding happily, but nothing difficult or dangerous. He reached for their kitchen first aid kit, mopped John's foot with a handy tea-towel (which he then looked at thinking he'd be in trouble for getting blood on that), and he stuck a plaster over the place.

He stood up and looked at John who was still pulling a face.

"John, please." He leaned towards him so their foreheads were nearly touching and John could feel his closeness. "It's just seven days, that's all. Seven days."

John opened his mouth to speak.

"No," Sherlock said. "If this is going to go on longer, then we can think of strategies so that you can do stuff for yourself, but right now, it's seven days, and you can be patient for that long. Well, hopefully anyhow. I mean, we've all seen how patience isn't exactly your strong point. But you can try."

John sighed but he nodded. He leaned against Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. They stood like that for a while and listened to Mrs Hudson approaching.

"Woo-hoo! Oh I'm sorry to interrupt you two!"

"Not at all," Sherlock said, releasing John.

"I just made one or two sandwiches too many and I wondered if you'd want them."

John grinned. "Mrs Hudson, even I can see through that one!"

"Oh come on now, John. You run around after everyone else all the time. It's your turn now. Go and sit down and eat something."

Sherlock let him walk carefully, by himself, to his armchair.

"Yes," John said. "I can manage to sit down in a chair by myself."

Sherlock grabbed a discarded corkscrew from the seat just before John sat on it. Mrs Hudson put the plate of sandwiches gently on his lap and squeezed his shoulder gently.

Sherlock threw himself down in the chair opposite and observed John.

oOo

Day Four

"John, Lestrade's here."

John looked up.

"Greg? Are you OK?"

"I'm fine, John. This is entirely a social call."

John smiled. "You have a social life? That doesn't sound right!"

"Well, every now and again I get banished from the house, and this seemed like a reasonable place to occupy."

"Well, OK, do you want a drink? Sherlock?"

Sherlock very carefully didn't exchange a glance with Lestrade.

"Actually, John, I was thinking I might pop out for a while. You don't mind do you? I'm sure Lestrade and Mrs Hudson between them could…"

"Oh, I see," John said, crossly. "What you mean is that you want to go and do some work, and so you arranged a babysitter for me."

"No!" Greg said.

"No, that's not…" Sherlock started.

"Sherlock! I can _hear_ when you're lying to me."

Sherlock hung his head.

"John," he said quietly, "I just thought you'd prefer company, that's all. It shouldn't take too long, and I'm happy not to go at all…"

"That's not what I'm saying. I'm not saying you can't go, I'm saying I don't need watching while you're out."

"John, I've been meaning to come round for days," Lestrade told him. "I kept getting brushed off."

John stuck his lip out.

"I've brought beer," Greg said.

"Then you can stay," John said. "And _you,_" he looked at where he thought Sherlock might be. "You can go out for a while, but don't be surprised if I've packed Greg off before you've got back."

"Fine," Sherlock said. He kissed John lightly and bounded out and down the stairs.

John listened to him leave.

"He's the strangest man. He can go days and days, weeks even, barely moving from room to room. Then other times, if he wants to do something, keeping him in the house is like caging a bird."

"Mm. Look, if you're just going to talk about Sherlock, I'll leave now. If you want to drink this beer with me, I'll stay. Your choice."

"Hand it over."

Lestrade considered opening it first, but in the end he handed the can to John and John sorted himself out perfectly ably.

"The thing is," John said, "if this is permanent, I'll have to leave him. We all know that really, deep down."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head.

"You know what John, for one thing, I don't think that's remotely true, and for another thing, even if it was true you still have no reason to believe that it's permanent." He frowned. "And for another other thing, you say it as if it's nobody else's business, and you get to make all the choices. If Sherlock said similar about you, I'd probably smack him round the face. So stop it. Also, I said I didn't want to hear lovesick mooping about your boyfriend, so stop that too. Now, I have three good Star Wars films, and three rubbish Star Wars films, the Life of Brian, and then because I saw it there, A Fish Called Wanda too. Where shall we start?"

John was already in bed when Sherlock got home. He woke up, but couldn't be bothered to move so he listened to him get food from the kitchen, and make a quiet phone call. There was quiet then, and John pictured him working at his computer for a moment. Finally, he showered and came into the bedroom.

"I'm awake," John said.

"So I see. Lestrade went home then."

"No, he's in here with me."

Sherlock snorted.

"Anyway, I managed to find my own way to bed perfectly well. See?"

"I see."

"I even made myself a cup of tea."

"Marvellous."

"So I can cope. I'm just saying."

"I know you can. I'm not even going to point out that your t-shirt's on inside out."

"So? Since when have you cared about that?"

"I don't care. You do care."

"Well then you're very mean to point it out. Shame on you."

"Mm." He got into bed and settled down, wrapping his arms around John.

"Greg called you my boyfriend," John said.

"Mm? So? Did it bother you?"

"No. It surprised me. I don't often think of you that way."

"Really? Is there someone else for whom that title's more appropriate?"

"No of course not! It just seems a bit of an odd title for you, that's all."

"Mm. Well maybe if you stopped introducing me as 'this is Sherlock, my er…, my er…, my er… This is Sherlock,' people wouldn't choose these terms for you."

They were quiet for a while.

"What do you call me?" John asked. "When you talk about me to people?"

"I call you what I've always called you; John."

"So nobody asks for clarification?"

"Then I say you're my partner. If people need further clarification, I stare at them until they go away." He yawned. "Sometimes, just to myself, I call you Grumpy McGrumpy-Pants, which is rapidly becoming my favourite name for you. Can I please go to sleep now?"

"Mm. Sorry." They were quiet for another while.

"I love you, Sherlock," John said. He blushed in the darkness.

"Good. Now shut up and let me sleep."

John grinned. "Oh, someone else keeping you awake, Sherlock? Goodness, how dreadful that must feel."

"Be quiet!"

"Oh no, I'm not sleepy! Should I start practising the violin loudly? Or maybe start running various, completely irrelevant deductions at you for a while? Or maybe I'll start telling you a story from my youth, but get distracted half way through and leave you forever guessing… Hey!" he squealed as Sherlock quietly tickled him.

oOo

Day Seven.

The doctor called John's name and he stood up with Sherlock. Sherlock guided him along the corridor and sat him down in an examination chair.

"How have you been getting on with the bandages?" The doctor asked. "Have you needed to take them off at all?"

"Nope, I have resisted temptation."

"OK, good. Right well let's get that done now. When I do so, I'd like you to try to keep your eyes closed for a bit. I'll give them another bath which you can blink into, and then we'll see what we can see. Well, what you can see, specifically."

John felt a buzz of nervousness, and heard Sherlock shuffling from foot to foot at the other side of the room.

He felt the coldness as the padding was removed and he sat patiently, waiting for instruction. He felt the hard plastic of the eye bath and the saline as it was rushed into his left eye.

"You can blink now."

He blinked, with both eyes. He felt a mild panic as the view from his left eye was blurred and fuzzy as the right one was bathed. A second bath came out and the left eye was cleaned too as he tried to blink the other eye dry so he could see what he could see.

It was quite quickly over, and he was handed tissues to wipe his face.

"OK then, what have we got."

John blinked again and the room came into focus.

"It's quite dark," he said.

"Yes, we've kept the lights on low so you don't get dazzeled."

"Oh, that make sense. Well, I can see things! I can see… things!"

He saw Sherlock as a slow grin spread over his face. He saw the relief was over him. He saw him desperately resist coming over and grabbing him for a hug.

"Are there any areas you can't see?"

He blinked again and concentrated. He shut his left eye.

"Yeah, there's a bit in the right eye that's strangely blurred." He blinked a few times. "It's not going away."

"Are there any black spots, shadows, anything of that ilk?"

"No, nothing like that at all!"

"OK, good, I'll have a look. I'm going to give you an eye test in a minute too, and I want you to not worry or panic about it. I'll retest in a week's time to see if you need glasses, but let's give it a week to get your lenses back up to speed."

"You'd look good with glasses," Sherlock said. "I can picture you with glasses."

"Well, we'll see," the doctor said. "In the meantime let's test them and see what we've got now."

John sat back and looked at the letter chart feeling like the luckiest man alive.


	36. Claudia

**This one is different. Sorry. The next one will be much more fun.**

**I've guest starred in (from my recollection) two of my fanfics. And now this one. It's immensely personal and… well, the only excuse I can offer is that I needed to do this tonight. Like I say, it will be business as usual with the next one!**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Claudia.

Sherlock sifted through the pile of Christmas cards on the table. It was only mid-December and he was feeling particularly resentful that people had already started distributing cards to people instead of having the good grace to wait until the day itself or to not bother at all.

His resentment grew as he noted that the vast majority of cards were addressed 'to John', or sometimes, at best, 'to John and Sherlock', despite the fact that several of the senders had known him for longer, and indeed _he'd_ introduced John to them in the first place.

It grew further as he noticed that John had separated the cards from the envelopes, clearly with the intention of displaying them, but had then failed to go ahead and display them. So they were making a mess of _his_ table.

He was considering whether to fling them all onto the fire, and was gathering them up to do _something_ with them, when one of the bottom card opened and two photographs fluttered out. He put down the rest and picked up the card along with the photographs, and of course, despite it clearly being for John, he read the card.

_Dear John,_

_Another year has flown by! And here is the girl herself, with her cheeky levels set to 11, and partaking in her favourite activity of making a massive mess._

Sherlock looked at the pictures. One was a close up of a girl of about four, with dark blonde curls and brown eyes, with a scrunched up face and grinning broadly. The second was of the same child, from a slight distance, standing in front of an exterior wall which had been covered with paint and handprints. The child was holding up paint-covered hands to the camera and grinning again.

_In fact,_ the letter went on, _the painting has taken over her previous favourite activity of fighting with her brother. In the last six months she's taught herself to read, which is good as I certainly haven't had time to teach her! She still retains her fondness of pink and frills and make up, despite having a mother in jeans and t-shirt (I think she's mildly ashamed of me). She is desperately looking forward to being four, when apparently, she'll be able to 'do everything in the world'. She thinks she'll be starting school the day following her fourth birthday. Poor, set-to-be-disappointed mite._

_She remains intensely beautiful and astonishing. So once again, thank you. Thank you so, so much for Claudia._

_Merry Christmas to you, and I hope that your next year is a brilliant on._

_Heather. xxx_

Sherlock turned and stormed through the flat.

"John? John!"

"What? What is it?" John came through from the bathroom, wiping cleaning products from his hands onto his jeans.

"John, who the hell is this?" Sherlock asked, holding up the card and pictures.

John looked at him, gave a faint, calm smile, and took the pictures from him.

"That, Sherlock, is Claudia."

He stepped past Sherlock and went into the lounge. Sherlock hurried after him and snatched the pictures away again.

"Hey!" John said, "don't tear them!"

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa and held one of the photos up to compare with John.

"She looks like you. She's got your eyes. Not your nose though, which is a blessed relief."

"Good, marvellous. I'm sure her parents would be happy that you think so. Both of them; her mother _and_ her father, neither of which is me, legally or genetically."

Sherlock lowered the photos and glared at John. John sighed and held his hand out for the photos and Sherlock handed to them with an arch look. John sat down in his armchair and looked at the photos.

oOo

_Three years previously_.

John hated loathed working on the Paediatric ward.

There was a reason that paediatrics was a specialism, and there was another reason why he hadn't selected it. It was noisy; children weren't capable of dialling the noise down even when, or probably especially when, they weren't well. The pictures on the walls and the colours of the doors and the curtains were all garish and horrible. There were toys spilling out of their areas and getting underfoot. There were small, annoying people who needed help but wouldn't calmly tell him what the hell was wrong with them and there were anxious parents aplenty all wanting instant diagnoses.

He was there because it was nearly Christmas and there were staff shortages, and it was generally considered that a qualified doctor was better than no doctor in the event that there was no paediatrician to cover. He was the third doctor on, so there were two other qualified members of staff to deal with patients as they came in, and he was merely there for back up and an extra pair of hands. It didn't alter the fact that he hated being in the ward.

The saving grace was the stunning brilliance of the paediatric nurses (and to be fair, the paediatricians too, wherever they might be). These were wonderful people who could tell without fail when a child was going to lurch and vomit, or lose consciousness, and they knew exactly what to say to the parents to calm them and they generally walked around the ward like soothing angels, and gave all the appearance of being really pleased to be there.

They even accepted and dealt with the grumpy-bastard-doctor who was sent to help out when regular staff were in short supply.

Charlotte was one of them. He saw her approaching the big security doors and swiped herself in with a naked baby of about ten months in her arms. She was followed by a terrified looking child of twenty or so, and two older people. He guessed that these were the mother and grandparents.

Charlotte gave him a slightly wooden smile, a nod of the head, and instantly vanished into a treatment room.

He followed.

Protocol was to take all new admissions into a waiting room to wait for triage. If Charlotte wanted the baby in the room right then, then there was probably a damned good reason for it.

The grandparents lingered by the doorway as he pushed past.

"You sit down there," Charlotte said to the mother, indicting a plastic waiting-room chair. "You can hold her then."

John wished she wouldn't hold her. Getting the kids flat on the bed helped him enormously with whatever he had to do. Helped _him_ enormously. He recognised that it was significantly better for the child to be cuddled by Mum while they felt like rubbish and things were poked into them.

He pulled the stool close and sat down on it.

"This is Claudia and Mum," Charlotte told him. "She's the one Dr Carson sent for the non-balnching rash."

"Right."

The unspoken ending to that sentence was 'and then she turned dark purple, so could you kindly stop her from dying please.' He made a note to apologise to Dr Carson who he'd been fairly rude to when he'd called in a panic that the baby needed to be moved 'right now!'

The rash puzzled him. It was hardly anything. He ran a thumb over the child's tummy.

"The rash blanches," he said.

"Yes, that one does." The mother said. "This morning, I told them on the phone that it… but her temperature… anyhow, this one suddenly appeared while the doctor downstairs was looking."

She turned Claudia slightly to reveal a pink prick rash of dark purple spots over the top of her back. John ran his finger over them again, and they stayed there, looking angry and purple.

He told himself to stop pissing about.

"Can you pass me gloves and a cannula?"

"What colour tube?"

He'd forgotten the colour coding for the cannulas.

"The smallest one."

She was already handing it across and he once again blessed the wonders of all paediatric nurses.

"Is someone passing?" he asked her.

She stuck her head out of the door and hailed another nurse. Someone he didn't know appeared and he trotted out a list of drugs for her to prepare.

"Has there been any vomiting?" he asked the mother.

"No," the mother said. "We just couldn't get the fever down. She was crawling around an hour ago, and even in the other room the doctor… it's just the rash," she whispered.

John saw now that she was very quietly crying. He realised now that she wasn't that young after all. She clung onto Claudia who was awake, but limp, staring at her mother.

"What painkillers has she had?"

"Er, 2.5 each of Calpol and Ibuprofen at six. It didn't help her temperature so they said to come here and check. She was fine then. She was crawling and climbing."

"Has she been weighed?" he asked Charlotte.

"No, we came straight in here."

"I don't think she's losing weight," the mother said.

He smiled slightly.

"No, I know, it's just we can give a weight appropriate dose of drugs for her."

The nameless nurse reappeared with a tray of drugs and test-tubes.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine with Charlotte."

He glanced at the mother. She was terrified, but seemed fairly oblivious to what was happening. It was as if she was feeling the terror, but she didn't know why.

"She sucks her left thumb," Charlotte told him quietly and held the right arm still for him to cannulise it.

Once again he reflected on the instincts of the people who knew not to cannulise the important sucking thumb.

He glanced at the mother again.

"I need to cannulise. I could numb her arm with gel but we haven't time, and the spray is instant, but sometimes makes the cannulising more difficult. Can I go ahead without painkillers?"

"Do what you need to do," the mother said.

Claudia didn't even wince when the needle went in her arm. She just stared at her mother. Her mother stared back and cried.

The tube went in cleanly and Charlotte quickly taped it in place.

He took bloods for testing, warily watching the mottled limbs that slowly got darker and duskier.

He finished the test-tubes and injected a tube of antibiotics into the cannula.

He hadn't noticed Charlotte clipping a tiny blood oxygen measure to Claudia's toe until it beeped a quite warning.

John nodded.

"Charlotte, could you get a couple of boluses prepared please?"

She nodded and called another nurse.

John glanced at the mother. She'd stopped crying now that treatment had started and she smiled at him.

"Sorry about this," she said. "She likes to get her fair share of attention."

The tone was light and she was clearly joking but John was still slightly shocked until he suddenly realised that she was completely oblivious about what was happening.

The grandmother suddenly wasn't.

"Lee, can you go to Heather's house, pick up Simon and Jack, take Jack to Sarah's and bring Simon here."

"Simon is her father?" John asked.

There was a quick nod of confirmation.

"What do you want me to tell him?" Lee asked.

"Just tell him he needs to come in," the grandmother said. "Don't worry him, but he needs to come in."

"Well he will worry if I just tell him he needs to come in. And I can't call Sarah yet, it's too early…"

John fought the impulse to walk up to Lee to shake him into action.

The grandmother steered him away and the nurse appeared with the bolus. John attached the large syringe to the cannula.

"Don't worry, it looks big and scary but it's just saline," Charlotte said to the mother.

"You're going to fix my baby with salt water?" she asked, apparently amused by the notion.

John tried the plunger and met resistance. He stopped. He wondered if this was normal with tiny patients and tried again but got nothing. He could feel Charlotte's eyes on him.

"The cannula's gone," he said. "Can you get another? I'll try a foot." He gave Claudia a weak attempt at a smile. "We don't want to tie up that sucking thumb do we?"

Claudia stared glassily at her mother. Her mother stroked her very, very gently. The grandmother was suddenly back and a cannula was passed across.

He opened it and instantly dropped it on the floor. It took every ounce of him to hold back the swear. He hadn't realised he was that stressed quite yet. He kicked it out the way and asked for another.

"Do you want me to find Antonia?" Charlotte asked. She handed him another cannula.

"No, stay here." He'd calculated the precise movements and timings it would take to get Claudia onto the bed and intubated and none of it could be used up by waiting for Charlotte to return, with or without Antonia.

This time he got the tube unwrapped successfully. He found a vein swiftly and surprised even himself with how cleanly and calmly he managed it. Charlotte taped the new tube down and gave him a smile.

The grandmother bit her fingers in the doorway and the mother rocked and stroked the baby, still oblivious.

He hooked up the bolus syringe and started to plunge. It took this time, and slowly and steadily he pumped the fluid into the baby. Tiny amounts at a time, he pressed into her. He suddenly frowned.

"Drip machines can do this, can't they? You can set them to go quickly, can't you?"

"Actually, now you mention it, yes," Charlotte said.

"Do you want me to wait with her while you get a machine?" the mother politely offered.

John thought of the amount of time it would take to run around the ward finding a free and working drip machine.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm more than happy to pretend to be a drip machine for a bit."

He gently pushed his thumb against Claudia's leg and counted to twenty before the resulting white mark disappeared.

"Can you have another bolus ready?" he asked Charlotte.

She nodded and hurried off.

The first good sign was twenty minutes later. Claudia wriggled and stretched a bit. She still didn't cry, but the promised thumb-sucking suddenly started. She now looked like a sleepy little girl rather than a rather unfortunate, discoloured doll.

He pushed against her leg for the tenth or twentieth time and the white mark had vanished before he reached five.

The oxygen reading was suddenly showing normal parameters.

He had about quarter of a bolus left, so he stretched and shuffled slightly while he pumped it into her.

A dishevelled man appeared and gave Claudia's head a bit of a stroke.

"You OK, button?" he asked.

"You've missed all of the fun," John told him.

He nodded and thanked him. "I wasn't sure what to bring," he said to Heather, "so I brought our reading books."

"No clothes?" Heather asked.

"No."

"Oh. I'm quite dirty."

John looked. The shoulder of her t-shirt was covered in snot and her jeans had been bled on when the first cannula had come out.

"Well, we'll be home soon," Simon said.

'Ah,' thought John, 'oblivious. Meet your wife; also oblivious.'

Claudia and her parents were taken away to a cubicle to get settled and to let her have a sleep.

An hour later and he he'd just taken a mini- clean-up break after seeing Lewis, the amazing vomiting toddler, when Charlotte walked past and tugged his arm.

"Go and have a look in room five," she said, hurrying off.

He wandered down the corridor and poked his head around the door of the little cubicle. There was Heather, sitting in a chair, reading her book. Simon was nowhere to be seen. Claudia was in the purple and green cot. She was standing at the side, holding onto the cot-side for balance, shaking it slightly and watching something captivating on Cbeebies.

She saw him and gave a gummy, drooly grin.

He walked into the room to have a closer look.

"I wasn't expecting to see that," he said.

"No," Heather said. "She likes to surprise people. I think half of the problem of it is she won't stay down until she's very ill. She's still hot and the rash is still there, but she won't settle. She gives every appearance of being the picture of health until she's suddenly not."

John looked at Heather. She was still watching Claudia and she looked exhausted. She no longer looked young but very, very old. She wasn't in a panic, but she'd clearly started to make sense of it all.

"Have the bloods come back?"

"No," she shook her head. "Someone mentioned measles. God, if it's that… She's been at nursery with other un-immunised kids…."

She shook her head but rallied.

"Thank you," she said again. She smiled at him, and John thought that though she looked older and tired, she looked a hell of a lot more engaged.

"You're welcome. And it's nice, if a little odd, to see her looking so well!"

oOo

"So that was it?" Sherlock asked. "You saved her daughter one time, and for this she feels the need to send you updates and thanks year on year?"

John smiled.

"I think if it had ended there, she'd have been able to blot it and move on more quickly. Her child had a strange episode, she got better, end of story."

"But that wasn't the end of the story."

"No."

Sherlock leaned forwards, eyes glinting, enjoying the yarn. John had a moment of pleasure that here, in this nice warm flat with the fire going and all being safe and comfortable, that he could still captivate his best friend.

oOo

John sauntered back from lunch, wishing he could have found something slightly more pleasant than the cafeteria's soggy attempt at a turkey and cranberry sandwich.

He swiped himself onto the ward, thanking his lucky stars that he only had a few hours left to go.

"Ah, John, marvellous!"

It was Hazel, a large, mature, bank nurse, utterly confident and unshakably cheerful. He desperately wanted to like her, but he found her jokes a touch too raucous.

She was carrying the limp, grey/purple, form of Claudia while Heather pushed the drip machine she'd been attached to.

He waved them back into the treatment room and followed them in.

"Where's Antonia?" he asked quietly.

"Not sure, think she's gone for a coffee," Hazel said lightly. There was the faintest hint of judgement behind her eyes.

"I'm really sorry," Heather said. "She fell asleep, but her feet went all dark again and Hazel said we should come in here."

"There's better light in here," Hazel said.

'Yes,' thought John to himself, 'and a wide range of resuscitation machines.' He decided to try to be nicer to Hazel in the future.

Heather quietly took her place in the plastic chair, and Hazel handed Claudia to her.

"Oh god, the rash!" Heather said. "It's spreading!"

She pointed out the pin-prick marks that were now appearing down Claudia's sides and chest.

"Don't worry about the rash," John told her. "Let's sort everything else out first."

"My Mum and sister are on their way," Hazel said. "Will someone tell them we're in here?"

John looked at her. She was back to vacant staring, desperately trying not to notice the huge, scary thing that was in the room with them.

He was concerned. Whatever was happening with Claudia had caused her to slowly shut down twice in six hours. He got the sudden impression that complete oblivion might not be the safest thing for Heather right now.

"Yes," John said, gently but firmly. "But they might need to leave fairly suddenly. OK?"

"Oh of course," Heather said. "It's just my sister's freaking out. Mum wanted to bring her in to show her that Mops is OK."

"Can you set the machine to deliver a bolus?" he asked Hazel. He wondered how best to point out to Heather that this was not the best time to be demonstrating the OK-ness of her child.

He glanced at Simon. He was still oblivious too, happily looking around at all the instruction posters on the wall. John briefly marvelled at the level of detachment parents could obtain when they needed to.

"Oh God! The rash!" Heather whispered again, starting to rush into a panic.

"Look," John said, "I've treated the rash. I've given her all the antibiotics I can. You need to stop focussing on it."

"But it's spreading!"

"Yes. But I've done all I can do about that."

He looked at the machine, steadily pushing fluids into the tiny child. He wished it wasn't there again, so he'd at least have something practical to do. There was also the issue that there were now tubes and cables which would obstruct him if he needed to transfer the baby to the bed. He mentally went through the list of things he needed to detach and move. Having done that, he went back to watching the machine tend to the baby.

"She'll be fine, you'll see," Simon said, quite randomly. "The doctor isn't worried."

John wondered which doctor he was talking about.

An emergency alarm went off from one of the other rooms.

"Go and check," he said quietly to Hazel. "Then come back."

"Do you need to go to?" Heather asked him.

"No." He sighed, wondering what to say and how to say it. "Look," he said to Heather, "I'm not worried about the rash, but I am worried about Claudia."

"Do you think it's meningitis?"

"No. At this point, if I was to be pushed to guess, I'd suggest it looks more like sepsis. But it doesn't actually matter; the treatment's the same and I've done it. Look, have you ever taken a first aid course?" He privately hoped she had never been trusted with anyone else's health, but she nodded, so at least he had something to work with.

"OK," he said, "so imagine you were at the scene of a car crash. What's the first thing you'd look for?"

"An ambulance."

John closed his eyes to marvel at the level of 'dim' she was achieving. He wondered what his new flatmate would make of Heather. Not a lot, probably.

Hazel came back into the room and just nodded at him.

"No," John said. "The first thing you'd check would be the airway. Then you'd check the breathing. Then you'd check the circulation. Well, Claudia's airway and breathing are fine."

"Oh! I know this! It's ABC!"

"Yes." He watched her be pleased that her theoretical knowledge had been given a practical application and he reeled at the oblivion again.

Simon swore quietly and left the room. John felt guilty that he'd shocked him so much, but he felt confident that Simon at least would be prepared for whatever might happen next.

Suddenly the Grandma was back, and with her was a woman who looked so remarkably like a slightly older Heather that he almost laughed. Sarah's face fell when she saw Claudia, limp, floppy and grey, as did the Grandmothers.

John watched the machine, watching it weave its magic, wishing again that there was something to do other than wait for a change in either direction.

"Is Jack behaving?" Heather asked, without even saying hello.

"Yes, he's fine," Sarah answered. "He's in the car with Mark, we thought we'd bring him in case you wanted to see him."

"No," John said instantly.

"No," the grandmother agreed.

"What happened to her foot?" Sarah asked.

"They had to amputate it," Heather answered.

Sarah turned green and hid her face.

"Heather!" the grandmother chided.

"Sorry," Heather answered, trying not to grin. "I'm sorry, Sarah. It's just where the cannula's going in. They bandage it pretty heavily so she can't pull it out. You know how she likes to fiddle."

Sarah tried very hard not to cry, and John had a sudden epiphany that the 'dim' was genetic. Not from the Grandmother though, she seemed to be well aware of everything.

"Simon's somewhere about. He's just taking a break," Heather said.

"Go and find him, Sarah," the grandmother instructed.

John watched the machine whirr and whirr as it pumped the fluid into the little girl.

"Mum," she said quietly. "Do you think we should call Father John?"

The grandmother sighed and gave a short nod.

"I'll go and call him now if you want me to."

Heather looked at the wall and cried again. She fought for control, and then shook her head.

"No, not yet. Let's not make a fuss yet."

The grandmother nodded again and John was glad that he hadn't been asked for his opinion. He was glad too, that there was a tiny indication that Heather finally understood.

Claudia stirred again and John took a long, deep breath. Simon reappeared with Sarah following him.

"Do you want me to take over for a bit?" he asked Heather quietly.

"No, I'm fine. My bum's gone to sleep a bit though."

John could relate to that.

He also noticed that Simon seemed to have absorbed, dealt with, and responded to the situation. He almost felt guilty now that Claudia was beginning to perk up again, but recognised that it being prepared for the worst and receiving the best was much better than the alternative.

He was aware of a brief negotiation between Grandma and Sarah, and Grandma was insisting she was staying around. Sarah left though, pleading for regular phone calls. He was glad. His shift was due to end and he felt that Heather might need a bit of propping up.

"She's not stupid you know," Heather said suddenly. "Sarah isn't. She's got a PhD. She's just somewhat lacking in common sense."

"I know the type."

"I didn't mean to be mean. I just… I don't have a PhD. I have to score points where I can."

He smiled at her.

"It's fine," he said.

She looked exhausted again.

"Look," he said and he held Claudia's leg. "You see the white mark that happens when I press here? It goes now, so press, one, two, three… and it's gone. That's how I know that there's blood and oxygen getting around her body. So there we go, her circulation is fine now."

"What if it goes again?"

"Well, you're going to be here for a good few days, with people keeping an eye on her. You'll get the results back from the bloods, and you'll get some idea of what caused it all. And then people will treat whatever that is. OK?"

She nodded and gave a pale, exhausted smile.

oOo

"So what happened?" Sherlock said. "What was it? Was the septicaemia confirmed? What was the cause of it?"

"Well, what happened was that I finished my shift and I came home and you dragged me out again immediately on that fish-burglar case."

"Oh that's not important! What happened to Claudia! Well, clearly she lived, but what was the cause of it all?"

John grinned.

"OK, well I didn't take another shift there for a bit, but Charlotte and I crossed paths a couple of times…"

"Wait, I remember Charlotte now. She was one of your women." He pulled a face.

"Yes, I tentatively tried to date Charlotte, it didn't work, get over it. My guess had been septicaemia, probably caused by tonsillitis or a chest infection or something. She got better that time, and the blood-tests came back negative for any infection. We all assumed it was a strange reaction to a virus and decided it was all fine. Claudia went back in several times though with similar, but not quite as extreme, symptoms. This went on and on for about four months when she turned up one day with her left ear sticking out from her head, and they suddenly discovered she had an abscess in her mastoid complex. She was operated on, the mastoid was removed, and she was hasn't been readmitted to hospital since. Look at her; the picture of health."

"Wait, you said her blood-tests were negative from the infection."

"They were. And apparently they were again, even when the surgeon was draining the abscess from her skull. I haven't the first idea why that might be."

"What? How can you not know? How can you not find out?"

"Because this was a child of around a year old, and sometimes small children's bodies react differently. It's why I hate paediatrics. Loads of tiny humans who all react in strange and unpredictable ways."

"That sounds like_ more _fun rather than less."

"Yes. That's because you're an idiot."

"Not as much of an idiot than Heather though!"

"I'd like to see how you'd cope in a similar situation! I was worried. The first card I got was odd. It was almost like a CV of this kid, really distant and cold. She doesn't write about herself, but I get the impression the whole thing hit her very hard. Her cards have started to feel warmer and funnier now."

"And she sends them to you still? Isn't that a bit stalkerish? After all, you've saved hundreds of lives. Claudia's not special; you'd probably forget all about her if Heather let you."

"She sends them to the hospital and they're kind enough to pass them on. She never puts a return address, she's clear she's not seeking a relationship of any sort, and it's once a year when it's coming up to that time again. I imagine she thinks that I can read them or bin them. And yes, it might be insignificant to me, but it's probably the most significant thing that's ever happened to her. And like I say, I can read them or bin them."

Sherlock looked at the pictures of the little girl.

"You keep them, don't you," he said, looking at John through narrowed eyes. "You've probably got a little keepsake box somewhere where you keep the pictures of one random child you've saved among the hundreds of other lives."

"Give over!" John said. He took the photos back from Sherlock and looked at them a while.

Sherlock watched him look at them.

"You want one, don't you?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was slightly startled. He'd expected some minor denial before admission. He looked at John, looking at the photos.

"Just so you know, there is no way, no how, absolutely no chance at all that I'd allow a _baby _into this flat on a long term basis." Sherlock said. "I can think of few things worse!"

John smiled.


	37. Toothache

**Toothache is probably my most prompted subject. I'm sorry it's taken me so long!**

**So this one is for… ****Cifer10, JustBeenCumberbatched, NikkiJustTalk, and everyone's favourite dentist, Jason Layton.**

**And just for kicks, I have embedded a secret message to you all somewhere in this chapter. If you choose to have a look for it and want to bask in the glory of your deductive power and quick wit, PM me with the message or suitable response (sensible people won't leave it in a review). All correct responses will win the prize of… well, getting a mention in the A/Ns is as much as I can do, so that. Apart from I'm rubbish at these, so if everyone gets it instantly, I'll A/N the first correct 10.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Toothache.

"John? John! John! Where are you?"

Sherlock ran about the flat, looking in each room and found John missing. It depressed him for a moment, until he spotted John's shoes and jacket discarded at points across the living room.

The fact that John was clearly in a god-awful mood was a secondary deduction to the more significant one that he was home somewhere. By process of elimination, he realised that John must be up in his own bedroom. It had escaped his attention simply because neither of them had been in there much recently.

"John!" he yelled again, running up the stairs. He flung open the door to John's room and there was the man himself, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Why didn't you answer me when I called for you?" Sherlock asked.

"Because I was rather hoping you wouldn't find me."

"Well, as hiding places go, on your bed in your bedroom, isn't exactly making things difficult for me."

"And you getting the hint that I'd rather be alone…"

"I understood the hint, I'm ignoring it."

"Righto."

Sherlock walked in, kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed next to John.

"I wanted to tell you I've signed up for a boxing tournament."

"Did you. That's nice."

"Will you come?"

"And watch? Yes. Probably."

"Will you come back and train with me."

"No."

"I think you gave up too soon. You were showing real promise, Matt said so, and Stephan agreed."

"Good for them."

Sherlock sighed.

"John, are you still in pain?"

"From the nose thing? No. I'm just not risking it again."

"No, not from the nose thing, that was nine months ago. From the tooth thing."

"I am now. I wasn't while I was letting the heat from my hot water bottle gently sooth it."

"Where's the hot water bottle now?"

"Under the bed."

"Probably not as effective from there."

"No."

"Did you hide it so that I didn't realise that you're in pain and you still haven't been to the dentist?"

"Yes."

"How's that plan working out for you?"

"Sod off, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced across at him and grinned.

"Put your hot-water bottle back. I'm going to make a call and book you an appointment with my dentist. He's very good. You won't feel a thing."

"I don't want an appointment with your dentist. It'll go away on its own. I'm rinsing it regularly with mouthwash and that'll cure it."

"It won't cure it."

"Sod off, Sherlock."

John failed to join Sherlock in bed that night for the first time in months. He also failed to get up and make breakfast at his usual time. It didn't take a genius to realise that was because his tooth was worse and he was avoiding anyone noticing this fact.

Fortunately, though there was a genius present, that particular genius did indeed miss the fact that John's tooth was a whole lot worse. His assumption had been that John would simply mend himself the way he mended everyone else. He was therefore surprised when John eventually staggered downstairs and disappeared very quietly to the bathroom, trying hard not to be noticed.

Sherlock, obviously, waited outside the door for him.

John swore as he walked straight into him.

"Why are you avoid…" Sherlock started. "Wow! You look like half a hamster! Well, I mean half your face looks like a hamster. And I specifically mean after the hamster has stuffed…"

"Schut up."

"I'm making you an appointment with my dentist."

John seethed silently, but he didn't argue. Mostly because he didn't want to open his mouth.

He continued to sulk and refused to move until ten minute before they had to leave for the short-notice, emergency appointment. Then he only moved because Sherlock had threatened to carry him to a taxi in his pyjamas if he didn't, and he strongly suspected Sherlock would carry out the threat.

He silently seethed and stropped and stamped as Sherlock transported him across town and led him into a very posh looking dental surgery. Sherlock smiled and greeted the receptionist as if she was a long lost friend. Mycroft and various other family members were asked after. John took a seat on the sofa and fretted.

After a remarkably short wait, a nurse in a delightful, pink set of scrubs emerged and he was invited to walk through.

Sherlock stood up with him.

"Whacht?" John said.

"Don't you want me to come in with you and hold your hand?"

John stared, shook his head and stomped off.

Sherlock settled down again, and picked up a copy of the Financial Times to read. He was pleased to note the practise of ironing newspapers hadn't completely died out.

John, meanwhile, followed the pretty nurse down a corridor and into the most lush dental treatment room he'd ever been in. It was huge. There were plants placed sedately around the room, there was a water feature (which unfortunately reminded him that he hadn't been to the bathroom of late), there were fish in a tank, there were pictures of beautiful natural scenes dotted around (including on the ceiling), and the was gentle music playing. Even the tiles on the floor were deep terracotta rather than the sterile off-white he was used to.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, is it?"

The dentist looked up at him. He was a shortish man, wearing thick glasses, with white hair and eyebrows. He looked young though, and physically fit.

"Good morning," John muttered.

The nurse quietly took John's coat off him and hung it on a coat-stand.

"Right, let's look at you. Hm. You put something hot on it, didn't you."

"Er, yesh. Hot water bottle."

"Are you some kind of idiot, sir?"

John bristled but didn't respond.

"You're a medical man, Dr Watson! You should know that infection will draw towards heat! You've managed to spread it right out! Well done you!"

"I can shee why Scherlock likesh you," John said.

"The Holmes family have been under my care for many, many years. I can assure you they like me because I am an _excellent_ dentist. Now sit down and lets check the infection isn't already in your cheek, you foolish man. If it is, we'll have to send you to surgery."

He gestured to the chair and John sat down in it. It was manoeuvred upwards and back and John felt dizzy with the strange motion and closed his eyes. On the dentist's instructions he opened his mouth as wide as he possibly could.

The dentist didn't look in his mouth for long.

"Right, do you have any problems with Penicillin?"

"No."

"Good, I'll write you a prescription presently. You will be on duel antibiotics for a week, 500mls a day of amoxicillin and metronidazole. In seven days time you will come back here, and I will give all of your teeth a thorough investigation. We will stop treating them as passing acquaintances, and they will become your best friends. We will treat them with tender, loving care, and consequently you will find that you need about half the dental treatment per year that you currently do. Because you will be seeing _me_, you will attend each session promptly. Because you fear dentists, I will ensure that you gently rest in painless calm while I tend to your teeth, and your journeys here will become a looked-forward to treat every six months. Do we have an understanding, sir?"

"Yesh." John sat on the edge of the chair and looked at his shoes. "Will you take the tooth out?"

"Remove the tooth? Why in God's name would I do that? Let us see what we shall see and take each step as it is in front of us."

"Shorry, you might be able to shave the tooth?"

"Why yes! Of course! Why would I subject you to an extraction if I could possibly avoid it? We will have to look, when the swelling and the main infection has died down, we'll get a much clearer idea of what's going on in there. In the meanwhile, take ibuprofen for the pain, rinse with salt-water, and for the love of God, don't put it anywhere warm again! Ice, man! Ice if you must, but heat never!"

"OK. Thanksh."

"Here, your prescription. Get it filled, take it dutifully. And give my best wishes and regards to Sherlock."

"OK. I will. Thansh."

John walked back along the corridor feeling slightly silly and slightly uplifted. He wondered if the dentist had some kind of drug floating through the air that just automatically made people feel comfortable and at ease. If he did, he thought, he should insist that all dentists everywhere had some of the same.

Sherlock stood up as he came back.

"Got a preshcription. Need to come back in seven daysh."

Sherlock waited patiently while he made another appointment and then they went to the neighbouring chemist for the medication. They got in a cab and headed home having been out of the house for less than an hour.

Sherlock watched as John flung himself down on the sofa looking cross and weary.

"It's your own fault," Sherlock said. "If you hadn't have waited in the first place, you wouldn't be in this state."

"Thank you."

Sherlock shook his head and sighed and went to get water for John's pills. He stood over him and watched as he dutifully swallowed them. Finally satisfied, he left John alone for and went to check his email.

"Oo, got a client this evening," Sherlock said.

John ignored him.

"Not sure that I want it though. Possibly threatening letters. I'll confirm and we will see." He glanced at John. "Though it might be better if you stayed out of the way. Don't want them to be frightened off by the giant, walking, hamster."

John swore at him, flopped down on the sofa, and sulked for a few hours.

Sherlock left him to it.

By mid-afternoon, Sherlock had realised that John wasn't talking to him. Almost immediately after he'd noticed, he started thinking of ways to force John to talk. Sherlock had once gone eight days without speaking to anyone, and he was quite pleased about this record. Of course that hand been pre-relationship and post-relationship he had found it somewhat more difficult, and he usually lasted about eight minutes after John had recognised what he was doing. He was impressed that John lasted all the way to dinnertime.

"I'm cooking!" he called through to John. There was no response.

"OK, I'm not cooking, but I'll buy a take out. What do you want?"

There was silence and he went to look at John and was rewarded with a shrug.

He sighed.

"Fine, I'll choose."

Half an hour later, he'd set the kitchen table complete with cutlery and candles, origami-ed the napkins into swans and had served out the food with precision.

"Dinner's ready!" he called.

John stomped through and stopped as he saw what effort had been made. He raised his eyebrows.

"I felt guilty that you're in pain and I'd been teasing you. So this is by way of apology."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I have no ulterior motive," Sherlock said.

John raised one eyebrow.

"Just sit down and eat," Sherlock said. "Look, I've even bought you a beer."

John sat down and gave a faint smile. He started eating and drinking.

"So will it be full dental surgery when the infection's gone?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged and ate some more.

"This really isn't funny, you know," Sherlock said.

John grinned and took another mouthful of beer.

"The stupid thing is," Sherlock said, "We both know I'm far better at this game, so I don't even know why you bother playing."

"Schit," John said, stopping suddenly and staring at his beer.

"What? Is the food not good?"

"I can't drink beer."

"Yes you can, I've seen you do it. I think you shouldn't but you… what's wrong?"

John was pale and looked slightly shaky.

"No, Sherlock, metronidazole; you can't drink alcohol with it."

"I thought that was a myth! Alcohol makes no difference to antibiotics at all."

"Apart from metronidazole, in which case it will poison you."

Sherlock stared.

"But you've only had a tiny bit!"

"And I can't have any!" He looked on the point of crying.

"John? John, are you going to vomit?"

"Probably," he murmured and then he pushed himself up and scarpered to the bathroom.

Sherlock sighed and picked at his food for a few minutes until the doorbell rang. He frowned again and sighed and went downstairs to answer it.

There was a vicar of about sixty standing on the doorstep, along with a young woman of about twenty-five. From certain similarities in their faces and expressions, he deduced they were father and daughter.

"Mr Holmes, I presume?" the vicar said.

"Yes, Father Simon McCauley, I presume?"

"Indeed. And this is my daughter, Sophie. I'm sorry we're a little early; I wanted to meet Sophie when she finished work and accompany her here. I hadn't realised she had an early finish today."

Sherlock glared at them for the intrusion, until he forced himself to smile and nod and invite them in.

As they climbed the stairs the sound of a forty-year-old doctor singing came into earshot. Sherlock mentally cursed the fact that John was so prone to responding to various levels of mental disturbance by bursting into song. On the other hand, he told himself, at least he wasn't ranting and swearing. Yet.

He turned and smiled at his guests and waved them into chairs.

"I'm so sorry! We've disturbed your dinner!" Sophie said, looking at the candles burning on the table.

"Not to worry," Sherlock said. "Your father mentioned threatening letters."

"Loooving you… ish eashy 'cos you're beauty-fu-u-ul…" John sang loudly.

Sherlock sat still. Woodenly, one might say.

"Yes," Father Simon said, looking nervously in the direction of the singing. "There have been a number of letters, and drawings, sent to Sophie."

"Shalalalalala! Shalalalala!" John sang.

"Letters, you say," Sherlock said, carefully holding them both in his gaze.

"Yes," Sophie said. "I'm afraid I threw away most of them, but when I mentioned it at home, Dad said I should keep them, and show them to him."

Sherlock looked at Father Simon and noted he had some experience of being sent anonymous letters.

"No, don' know that one!" John said loudly. "I know… Jingle bells! Batman smells… robin flew away!" This was followed by giggling.

"Can I see the most recent letter?" Sherlock asked.

Father Simon looked disgruntled and only reluctantly handed the letter across.

Sherlock read it quickly.

'_I think of you often, always, all day, all night. To see you in my dreams gives me the greatest joy of heart. Snow burns, fire freezes, the rain falls up to heaven because I don't hold you in my arms. My need for you is great, overwhelming, suffocating._

_You are killing me._

_Beware, little child who plays with matches in the dark! I know your darkest passions. Rest now, quietly, gently. Time will come when we will be joined and then you'll know what pain and joy comes with my love!_

_Hold the little sparrow carefully in your hands, don't crush his tiny wings! Dare you venture into the cave with me?_

_Always, my dear, my love, my life._

_Yours I am now.'_

He read it a second time, while the sounds of Silent Night drifted around the flat.

"I think he's just a mad man," Sophie said, sounding more worried than she'd like to.

"No, he's just experiencing some kind of poisoning. He's not like that normally." Sherlock glanced up at her. "Oh, you meant the writer. Yes. Probably."

"Sleeeep in heavenly peeeeaaaace! Sleep in…." There was a sudden, ominous silence and Sherlock frowned.

"Even if he is mad," Father Simon said, "It doesn't mean he's not dangerous! It means he's _more_ dangerous!"

Sherlock was now convinced that Father Simon knew the writer. He wondered why he'd bothered coming to see him at all, and was finding that he was loosing patience.

"Actually, people with mental illnesses are..."

He stopped, as there was the most hideously loud sound of vomiting from the bathroom. It seemed to last for hours while Sherlock stared into the corner and finally succumbed to the blush he'd been fighting.

It was followed by an enormous belch and the muttered sound of 'oh, that's better'.

"I think we're wasting our time there," Father Simon snapped, standing up. He snatched the letter back from Sherlock's hands.

Sophie stood too, though more calmly, and Sherlock followed them both to the flat door.

"Please, Father Simon, I apologise. It's honestly just an unfortunate moment…"

"No! I'm not interested in you or your drunken friend!"

He marched down the stairs.

Sophie came back for a moment though and pushed a piece of folded paper into Sherlock's hands.

"I hope he feels better soon," she said, before her father shouted for her and she scurried away.

Sherlock went back into the flat and shut the door behind him. He sighed and headed to the bathroom to check that John hadn't choked on his own vomit. He found him slumped over the toilet, looking dejected but still breathing. He sat down on the side of the bath.

"You've just lost me a case," he said.

"You poishoned me!"

"I gave you a beer!"

"Yesh! That'sh right! You gave me a beer!"

"You didn't have to drink it! If I'd have been to medical school like _some_ people, I'd probably have known not to mix alcohol and that drug you said."

"Metro… metro-didn't… metroniddle…"

"Don't hurt yourself."

"You made me shtupid!" John wailed. "There's only room for so much clever in this flat, and you gone and got it all."

He turned to vomit again. Sherlock shrugged and opened the paper. It was an A4 sheet of foolscap paper, with the words of the letter copied neatly in a woman's handwriting. At the bottom, it finished with the words 'Thank you, Sophie McCauley' and her mobile number.

"Oh Sophie, you're much too good for both of them," he murmured. "Have you finished yet?" he asked John.

"I'm gonna be shick as a dog all bloody night," he grumbled. "Acetaldehyde poisoning. You try saying that shober."

"I don't want to," he smiled at him. "If it's going to go on a while, I'll get you a bucket and let's go to bed. I'm not spending the whole night in the bathroom, and you're too old to stay sitting on the floor."

He got up and tried to get John to his feet.

"I'm sick," John moaned.

"Fine if you're going to be like that, I'll get the bucket first."

He dashed to the kitchen, blew out the candles and grabbed the bucket. He took it to John who hugged it to himself and looked pathetic. He allowed Sherlock to help him up though, and was guided across the hallway into Sherlock's bedroom. He got onto the bed and continued to look miserable.

Sherlock failed to notice as he sat on the bed next to him, reading the letter again.

"It's clearly some kind of hidden message…" he muttered. "There's clearly something here… Oh! How stupidly simple! Gosh, someone with less than two working brain-cells could have worked that one out!"

John threw up into the bucket.

"Do you think I should charge them?" Sherlock asked. "Less than five minutes work. I'd be tempted to charge the father just for his stupidity."

John threw up some more.

"The daughter seems OK though," he said, folding the paper into a dart. He threw it across the room and rubbed John's back a bit.

John sighed and coughed. "Could you get me some water?" he mumbled.

"Mm." Sherlock went to fetch water, and as an afterthought, some tissues.

John was missing when he came back into the bedroom, but he soon returned with a clean bucket.

"You look feverish," Sherlock said. "You feel feverish. Are you sure you're not ill?"

John slumped onto the bed. "Ace-thingy poisoning, Sherlock. It's not nice." He hiccupped and took the water from Sherlock.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Bucket. Wisdom. Quiet."

"I can certainly manage two of them."

"'K then."

"I'll leave the lamp on for a bit and keep an eye on you."

"'K".

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I'm very sorry I've made you so stupid."

"Hmph."

* * *

**Extra special thanks to Jason Layton for some of the facts and figures in this one.**

**Pip xxx**


	38. Baby!

**OK, so the sleuths out there: Katkin (I think, she could have found out by other means though…), Statistiques, Pilikia18, pumpkinone, Jason Layton, Darth Jackie, MASHFanficchick and St0rmi. Thank you all!**

**I suspect some of you were waaaay overthinking this. Being a bear of little brain, I used the simplest code that I could. The first letters from each sentence in the letter spell out the message (though it's old news now). Was it fun to look though? Should I sharpen my wits and embed more little mysteries in these chapters?**

**TheLilyAndTheRose: By my count I have one dentist, one fully qualified doctor and you reading this. Yes, it is very nerve wracking! Yes, despite the many disclaimers, I kick myself whenever I get something totally wrong!**

**Finally, I am soooooo suggestible (and changeable). After 'Claudia' a number of people said 'Oo! Do a baby fic! Even though you've done two or three already, please do another!' and my immediate response was, 'no, I've done more than my fair share of SpawnFic, plus, this is a sick fic and a baby wouldn't fit here! I'm not doing it!'**

**So here it is.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Baby

Sherlock, red-eyed and dishevelled, stomped through to the kitchen.

"Is there coffee?" he growled, and slumped down at the table.

"Good morning, sunshine!" John chirped. "How are you, this fine day?"

"Is there coffee?"

"Overdo it a bit last night?"

"No. Is there coffee?"

"You look quite red-wined."

"I'm not. Is there coffee?"

"There is. And I'd suggest water to supplement that."

"I'm not hungover. Give me coffee."

John sighed, but he did pour a coffee for Sherlock and put it down in front of him.

"Could you be less loud?" Sherlock asked.

"I probably could be." John turned on the radio. A Christmas song blared out and John turned it up. "I like this one," he said.

"I hate you."

John started singing along and filling the sink with water.

"John? Why is it that you hate me so much this morning?"

"Good night was it?" John asked.

"No. It was awful. It's always awful."

"Why did you go then?"

"Because… Mycroft…"

"Mm? Yes?"

Sherlock picked at his coffee cup for a moment.

"You wouldn't get it," he said.

John turned and looked at him.

"Here's another question. Why didn't you invite me?"

Sherlock stared.

"I'm just wondering," John said. "I wonder if you're in some way ashamed of me."

"I'm not ashamed."

"So you didn't invite me because…?"

Sherlock shrugged, though there was also a slight pink tinge to his cheeks.

"It was awful. I was saving you."

"You never save me. Well, not from that sort of thing."

"I didn't…"

"Yes?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I'm not ashamed of you. We need to be really clear about that to start with, but… I didn't want Mycroft to know. That we're together, I mean."

"OK, well, one, that sounds awfully like shame, and two, we could have just gone together and just not have been obviously together, and three, Mycroft already knows."

"No he doesn't."

"Yes he does."

"Why, have you told him?"

"Nope. But he knows. The reason I know this is because every other year he's sent you the same invitation, and it has said 'Mr Sherlock Holmes' and this year, it said, 'Mr Sherlock Holmes and Guest."

Sherlock stared at him.

"What?" John said. "Sometimes I'm clever. Deal with it."

"It wouldn't have… It was…"

"Look, I dropped hints, I asked you if I'd need to hire a suit, you ignored me in a particularly pained fashion. I'm just saying, I would have gone to save you from your misery. As it was, you went alone, were miserable, drank far too much red wine, then spent the evening telling your brother how brilliant I am and how you're so afraid of not being good enough for me."

"I did not!"

"Well, according to the seven texts I got from Mycroft over the course of the evening, you absolutely did. He even sent a photo. He also apologised for you not inviting me, and said that despite your fears, my dancing couldn't possibly be worse than yours. He said next time he'd invite me directly."

Sherlock stared at the table for a while.

"Is there more coffee?" he asked. "This one's cold."

"Will you invite me to Mycroft's party next year?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll make some fresh coffee. You go and brush your teeth. You stink."

Ten minutes later Sherlock came back from the bathroom clean, and with clean pyjamas and a dressing gown on. John looked up.

"Not getting dressed today then?" he asked.

"I might later, if there's a good enough reason.

John poured him a coffee. The toaster popped up and he started buttering it for Sherlock, then he put it on a plate and slid it across the table to him.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I think I love you."

"Good. Nice to hear you so certain about that."

"I'm not ashamed of you." John rolled his eyes at him. "I'm not! It's just I've always told Mycroft that I'm not interested in the more ridiculous emotions. He says I am and it's my one weakness. So that's why I didn't want to admit it. It's not about you at all."

"Ah. Right. I see. It's the sibling rivalry again."

"It's not sibling rivalry! It's that I'm better than he thinks I am!"

"Just so you know, Mycroft thinks you have more than one weakness."

The doorbell rang and they looked at each other.

"You're dressed," Sherlock pointed out and he went back to his toast.

John rolled his eyes but he went downstairs to see who was there. He was slightly surprised to find a baby carrier sitting on the doorstep with a sleeping baby in it. It was well bundled in white blankets, but John quickly pulled it inside out of the cold anyway. He looked up and down the street but there was no-one to be seen.

"Sherlock?" he bellowed. "Sherlock? You might want to come and look at this."

He heard the sound of Sherlock grumbling and muttering as he walked downstairs. He stopped and looked at the baby carrier.

"What's that?" he said.

John turned to stare at him for a bit and he blushed.

"Obviously I know what it is!" Sherlock snapped. "I mean, what's it doing here? Oh, god… John, what have you done?"

"Me? I haven't done anything!"

"Well I clearly haven't done anything, so why is it here?"

"I don't know. Let's take it upstairs and call Greg."

"Why?"

"Because a baby's been dumped on our doorstep. The sensible thing to do is to alert the authorities!"

"Oh. OK then. Let's get rid of it." He turned and stomped back up the stairs. John shook his head but he did pick up the carrier and carry it up the stairs. He rested it on the kitchen table next to Sherlock who didn't look up from his coffee.

"There's a letter," John said. He pulled the corner of paper that was wedged down at the side of the baby. "Oh look, it's addressed to you." He handed it across.

Sherlock put his coffee down and opened it.

"Huh," he said.

"What does it say?"

"It says 'Sherlock, this is yours.'"

"Do you recognise the handwriting?"

"I do not."

John gently brushed the skin of one, wrinkly hand, and felt the baby's head.

"It's new," he said.

"Well obviously."

"OK then, how old would you say it is?" John snapped.

Sherlock glanced at it. "I don't know. It could be anywhere from a few days to about six months."

"Six months? Sherlock, this baby is less than two weeks old. I'd put it at maybe seven days."

"Call Lestrade. Sort it out."

"It's your baby."

"It's really not."

"No, Sherlock, you sort it out, OK?" He stamped through to the living room and sat down in his chair.

"John? Is something wrong?"

"There's a baby on my kitchen table!" John snapped. "And my partner is too silly to invite me to his family Christmas party! You work it out!"

"I'll call Lestrade," Sherlock said.

Half an hour later the three of them were standing in the kitchen looking at the baby in the carrier. Lestrade had read the letter, and blown his cheeks out a few times.

"It's a pretty little mystery anyway," he said.

"I thought you were going to say 'pretty little baby' then," John said.

"I was going to offer it to you," Sherlock said.

"Why would I want it?"

"You couldn't want it less than me," Sherlock pointed out. "Can't you take it away and do something with it? What about hospital?"

John hissed, quietly.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"It's just… look, this kid is very young. Whatever else is going on, there's probably a mother freaking out somewhere, and she might need some sort of help. If we can keep the kid out of the system for a few hours at least and possibly reunite the two, we might be able to challenge them both into some of the more friendly services."

"What about the baby?" Lestrade asked. "Is it OK?"

"Yes, what about the baby, John?"

"The baby seems fine. It must have just been fed, because it's been sleeping for an hour. I'm not saying long term, I'm just saying, perhaps we should try the nutcracker before we try the sledgehammer."

"Well, I guess it's up to the two of you really," Lestrade said. "It's your baby."

"It's not mine," John said.

"It's not mine either!" Sherlock said.

"So what did you want me to do?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shuffled and looked at John, shiftily for a moment. Finally he looked at Lestrade.

"Can you… see if you can find its mother somehow, but leave the baby here with us? For a bit anyway?"

"Well I can do," Lestrade said. "I'm not convinced that I should though. Will you keep an eye on him?" he asked John.

"Keep an eye on who?"

"I mostly meant Sherlock."

"Well, I won't let him kill it."

"Right, well, what's the gender?" Lestrade asked.

"Sex, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "Words have gender, people have sex."

"Well some people certainly do, anyway," He tried hard not to grin.

John sniggered.

"Stop it! Both of you! This is _not_ funny!"

"It is a bit funny," Lestrade said.

"It is _not_!" he shouted.

"Stop shouting!" John said. "You've made it cry now."

The baby had screwed up its face and was making pitiful wails.

"Make it stop," Sherlock said, looking at it, horrified.

"Who are you talking to?" Lestrade asked.

"Anyone!"

"It's your baby," John said.

"It's really not."

The three men stared for a while. John reached out and pushed the carrier slightly towards Sherlock. He instantly nudged it on to Lestrade who nudged it back again. Sherlock took a step backwards and John and Lestrade turned and walked away.

"That isn't _fair_," Sherlock whined. "I'm clearly the least suited to tend to a crying baby."

"I'm a grumpy-ex-soldier, he's a grumpy-senior-cop, and you're a… you. Work it out, genius."

Sherlock stared, opened mouthed at him. John sat down and noisily picked up a newspaper. Greg looked at Sherlock and shrugged.

The baby was settling into the crying now, getting louder and more rhythmic. There were two, tiny tears squeezing out of its eyes.

Sherlock rolled up the sleeves on his dressing gown, but they fell straight down again so he took it off. He pressed the button on the carrier buckle to release the straps, gingerly pushed his hands around its back and lifted it up. He held it to his shoulder.

The baby appeared to be shocked into silence.

Sherlock turned with a triumphant smirk, but John was still hiding behind his newspaper. Lestrade looked at him with a suitably impressed face though. The baby got over its shock and started wailing again, and Sherlock looked baffled. He put it back in its carrier and picked it up again. It continued to wail.

"It's stopped working," he said.

John slammed his newspaper down.

"It's probably hungry, or has a dirty nappy. You need to do something about that!"

"How? While you might think my genius can achieve anything, I cannot, and will not, lactate!"

John got up, stomped across the room, and put his coat on.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock squeaked.

"You're a genius, you work it out!" He stormed off.

Sherlock watched him leave.

"Where is he going?" Lestrade asked him.

"Well, he's either leaving me because he's horrified that someone else believes, or wants to believe, that I had sex with them while he and I were possibly together, or he's gone to get baby supplies."

"Which is more likely?"

"Well it's John, so the latter. But it's also me, so possibly the former."

Lestrade shook his head a bit.

"Look, Sherlock, it would be very helpful if you could tell me honestly, and confidentially, is there any way at all that this baby is yours?"

"No!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"So, just to be really clear, you didn't have sex with a woman approximately forty weeks ago?"

"N… Oh. Forty weeks you say?"

"Sherlock?"

"So sometime towards the end of February. OK, I know you're going to take this the wrong way, but it was work…"

"Sherlock! I swear if you weren't holding a baby I'd smack you so hard right now!"

"It was _work!"_

"It was bloody stupid! How could you do that?"

"It was work! And anyway, John and I weren't together at that time! Well, not really, not properly, we were still doing that weird thing where we were sort of… negotiating."

"Do you in fact mean dating?"

"Perhaps…"

"Sherlock! And you weren't even safe!"

"I was!"

"Clearly not safe enough! You imbecile!"

"Lestrade, what am I going to do? Can you help me? Please?"

"Well, if you are in fact the father, and the mother has given tacit permission for you to have the child at this time, then no crime has been committed…"

"Lestrade!"

"… But like John says, she's recently given birth, and is in a poor enough mental state to think that the best option was dumping the thing on your doorstep, so for her sake we ought to try to find her."

"Thank you."

"And then the two of you can negotiate proper child support and access to the child."

"Lestrade!"

"What? You had sex, you take the consequences."

Sherlock stood there with his mouth hanging open.

"Sherlock, don't look like that. There are consequences to your actions." He nodded at the baby. "This might well be one of them. Anyhow, it seems to be a bit more settled now it's sucking at your t-shirt." He frowned. "Though that might not be sanitary. Now, give me the name and any details about this woman you slept with just for work."

Sherlock sighed, but trotted out the name and details to Lestrade while burning with shame.

"I'll be back later," Lestrade said. "Or I'll call you, depending."

"You're going now?"

"Yes, I'm going now. I could stay, because I think it would be quite funny to watch, but I'm going to go, because it's really not my problem. Give me six hours to see what I can find out anyway."

"Please don't leave me alone!"

"You're not alone. You're with him. Or her. I don't think I want to find out, but send me a text when you do. It might simplify things." He headed out and Sherlock watched him leave.

Shortly afterwards, the baby decided that the t-shirt it was sucking wasn't quite the thing, and started wailing again. Sherlock walked back and forth across the flat, jiggling it slightly.

He didn't even hear Mrs Hudson approaching.

"Sherlock, I'm just going to…" She stopped and stared.

"Oh! Mrs Hudson! You're a woman, here have this!" he held out the screaming child.

She shrank back against the wall.

"Where did that come from?" she whispered.

"It was left here, I don't know why. I'm nearly completely sure that it's not mine."

"Oh, Sherlock!"

"Look, judge me later, Mrs Hudson, but please help me stop it crying!"

"Sherlock! I…" She turned and left. She passed John on the stairs.

"What's wrong with her?" John asked as he came in.

"Don't know, don't care, it's still crying."

"Have you done anything about that?"

"No."

"Are you relieved that I'm back and going to do something about that?"

"Oh, in so many different ways, John! Here!"

"No, keep it for a second. I need to sterilise the bottles then make up the formula."

"A second?"

"A few minutes. Calm down; it can probably sense you're stressed."

"They can do that?"

"Tell you what, I'll sterilize the bottles, you change it. There's stuff in the bag. Be nice to know what sex it is."

"Change it?"

"This must be what it feels like to be you, most of the time. Yes. Change its nappy. Off you go."

Sherlock stood there, looking at John until John turned to face him.

"OK, fine, I'll change it. You put the steriliser together, and sterilise the bottles that are in the bag." He took the baby from Sherlock and looked at it. "I know, little… thing," he muttered to it. "I know this is all very scary for you, but we'll sort that out."

"You're not that nice to me," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sorry?" John said.

"Nothing. Where are the instructions for this thing?"

"In the box, use your common sense, will you?" He wandered through to the bathroom to grab a towel, and put it on the kitchen table. He put the baby on it.

"You're changing its nappy _there_?"

"Yes. What of it."

"That's where we eat, John."

"I've seen you put far worse substances onto this tabletop than could possibly come out of this child. Right, let's have a look at you, poppet-chops."

"Poppet-chops?"

"Were you thinking of naming it?"

"No, but if I do, it won't be Poppet-chops."

"He's a he then," John said.

Sherlock came to look.

"Wow! He's huge!"

John rolled his eyes.

"He's younger than I thought," he said. "They tend to start big like that sometimes; it's a reaction to the woman's hormones while they're in utero. The girls can occasionally have a mini period." Sherlock backed across the kitchen. "What?" John said.

"That's probably the foulest thing I've ever heard."

"Oh get over it!"

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, not coming closer.

"What? Oh, that's the clamp for the umbilical cord. It'll come off soon, probably before he's ten days or so."

"It doesn't have any useful identification on it, does it?"

"Nope. Oh, there's an idea though." He fished down one foot of the little, yellow baby-grow and triumphantly pulled out a tiny hospital ID bracelet. "Baby Collins. Does that ring any bells?"

Sherlock turned to look at the steriliser.

"OK then," John said quietly.

"Oh! Wait, I have an idea!" Sherlock rummaged through his supply cupboard and headed towards the baby with a cotton bud.

"What the hell are you doing with that?"

"I'm going to get a DNA sample from inside his cheek."

"No! You can't! You can't put a cotton bud in a baby's mouth! What if bits come off and choke him!"

"Don't shout, John, you've made it cry again."

"Him!"

"Whatever! Look, John, I really need you to know that this probably isn't my child! The chances are really, really slim."

"Sherlock, all I need to know is that there is a chance at all. Now there's a carton of formula milk in the bag. All you need to do is to pour it into the bottle and give it to me."

Sherlock did so, silently. John put a fresh nappy on the baby and started re-dressing him.

"Damn," he muttered.

"What is it?"

"The nappy's leaked a bit onto his sleep-suit. I didn't buy more clothes."

"I can help," Mrs Hudson said, coming in. "They're a bit old fashioned now, but the baby won't mind." She put down a pair of pleated white pantaloons, cut big enough to go over an old-fashioned cloth nappy, and a small, knitted matinee jacket.

"He's a he, Mrs Hudson," John said, smiling at her.

"Oh, that's nice. He's a fine looking boy, isn't he?"

"He's not too bad." He started dressing him again. "How long ago was it?" John asked quietly.

"Oh, a long, long time ago; the first year I was married. I was twenty-two weeks when I lost it. That was a little boy too. I never got pregnant again."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry. That's just awful."

"Oh, it's all water under the bridge now. I'm happy with how things ended up, really."

"Do you want to feed him," Sherlock asked, holding the bottle out?

"Oh, no. No I don't think so. He's a lovely one though isn't he?"

"_I_ think he's a very fine boy," John said. "Give me that bottle, Sherlock. I'll feed him, shall I?"

Sherlock handed it over with mumbled thanks. He watched Mrs Hudson watch John carry the baby to the living room and sit down on the sofa. He pulled some faces at the baby and encouraged the bottle into his mouth and then there was the peaceful sound of sucking and snorting as the baby ate.

Mrs Hudson shook her head suddenly and smiled.

"Is there anything else you need?" She asked. "I can go to the shops later."

"We're hoping to be shot of it before too long," Sherlock said.

He was surprised that she looked so disappointed as she turned to him.

"Well, yes, I suppose you wouldn't think that, wouldn't you." She quickly left.

"Well done, Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock hung his head for a moment and fought the will to run away. He went into the front room and sat on his chair and watched John. John was clearly still upset, and to be fair, Sherlock predicted that he would be for a while longer. He looked calm with the baby though, cradling him with a little muslin square draped over his arm. The baby was staring at him while he ate, as if he was intrigued by this situation. John pulled faces and whispered to him.

"John?" Sherlock said, "I don't think he's mine. He doesn't… I mean, the chances are astronomically small, I mean, apart from anything else I was being safe!" He stopped as John winced.

There was a pause.

"I'm struggling to work out the dates," John said. He kept his tone light but Sherlock could tell how hurt he was. "Were we even together then?"

"It would have been mid-February. Yes, we were together. It was early, but yes."

John nodded.

"It was that case I took, while you had that run of night shifts."

"I find I'm not interested in the details."

"John, honestly it was nothing. I swear I never would have if it wasn't for the case! It was a physical act, purely the means to an end! Just like eating or sleeping."

"You know, it never fails to bother me that you can equate having sex to having a sandwich."

Sherlock was quiet again for a moment.

"I can't anymore," he said quietly. John didn't react. "John," he said again. "John, please, if it is mine… I don't think it is, but if it is… would you go away?"

John sighed and went quiet. Sherlock was used to his 'thinking things through' face by now and he quietly watched him.

"I think the thing is," John finally said, "whether he's yours is really neither here nor there. The fact that he _might_ be yours is the issue. It's the act ten months ago that's the problem, not the result now."

"I can't do anything about ten months ago!"

"No, and you can't do anything about whether this is your son or not. What?"

"No, nothing."

"No, what?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "'Your son' in the context of me is… interesting."

John watched him for a while.

"Sherlock, you know I like kids. You know I wouldn't have a problem having your son in the house, you know I'd like to be a part of a child's life rather than a distant 'presents at Christmas time' sort of Godfather like I am now. The baby really isn't the problem here."

"No. I understand."

"But let's not talk about it now, OK? It's all been a bit of a shock."

"OK."

"Good."

Sherlock watched for a moment.

"John, Mycroft wasn't lying about yesterday. I did spend about three hours just panicking that I was going to screw up and lose you." John nodded. "I didn't realise I already had."

"Sherlock…"

"And I know for absolute certain that I love you."

"Sherlock…"

"And if it turns out that the child's mine, I'll take care of it, and not just with money, I'll see it and… talk to it or something. I'll do that. I'd prefer to do that with you making sure I don't screw that up too, but I'll do it either way."

"Sherlock, let's not talk about this now. Look, he's finished. You take him back and burp him."

"Do what?"

"Put him on your shoulder, rub his back firmly until he burps. No don't look like that, do it!"

He handed him across and Sherlock took him. The doorbell rang again and John went off to answer it. He returned quite quickly with his arm gently guiding a youngish, dark-haired woman into the flat. She had clearly been crying quite hard.

"Sherlock, you remember Laura Collins, don't you?" John said.

"Oh! You've got him!" Laura said. "Oh, thank goodness! Is he OK? I suddenly thought you might have sent him away! Oh! You fed him!"

"Yes, I was a bit concerned he was hungry. He is fine, Laura," John said. "You sit down there, and I'm going to make you a sugary tea, OK?"

She sat down on the sofa and looked at Sherlock. She didn't ask to take the baby back yet, and he didn't offer.

"Is he mine?" Sherlock finally asked.

She shrugged and cried some more.

"No. Maybe. I don't know. I think I want him to be, but I think probably not."

Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything else. Laura continued crying and wiping her face. John came back with tissues and tea for her.

"OK, first things first," he said, "are you OK? Physically I mean, we'll talk about the rest in a minute. You must have been on your way home from hospital, were you properly checked out or did you just leave?"

"I'm fine! My breasts hurt though; I think I need to feed him. Sorry. No, I was properly checked out. They said we were both fine, and said we could go, but on the way home…" she sobbed for a bit. "Sorry, sorry." She gulped and sniffed. "I can't… his dad… well, probably his dad… it's been bad for a while. He's drunk and he's… he's hit me. He does more and more, and he wouldn't even come to the hospital! He turned up yesterday, but he was drunk and rude and didn't stay! I could see them all looking at me, and then today, when they said I was to go, they gave me leaflets and numbers of women's shelters and I was in the cab looking at them thinking I couldn't possibly take him to one of those places, but I couldn't possibly take him home neither! And then I thought of you. I think of you a lot, Mr Holmes, and I often wonder, so I sort of decided it and I came here. But then it felt so awful without him!" She cried again.

John put his arm around her and rubbed her arm and she leant against him and cried.

After a moment, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"It's Sherlock," he said. "I think that Mr Holmes is a little silly at this point, don't you?"

Laura sat up and wiped her eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Sherlock. I know it was awful."

"Awful is too strong a word," Sherlock said. He glanced at John.

"Laura, are you married to him?" John asked. She shook her head. "Well that simplifies things a bit. Look, you're going to stay here for a bit, certainly for the next few hours. I know a frankly brilliant police officer, and she's going to come and chat to you about the sort of thing that's been going on with this man. She's going to take a statement, and she's going to give you the various options, and we'll help you work out what you're going to do next."

"I want a DNA test," Sherlock said, abruptly.

It shocked Laura out of her tears.

"Look, Mr Holmes, Sherlock I mean, he's really not yours!"

"Probably. Possibly though."

"But the chances are so small!"

"So we'll do a test and we'll all know for sure. If he is mine, I will help with money and clothes and maybe outings and things."

"But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," John said firmly, watching Laura's hopes build up again. "I think the test is a good idea in a few weeks, but first things first, let's get you and… did you have a name for him?"

"I like Henry," she said. "Matt hated it though."

"Well, we'll get things sorted for you and Henry in the short term, and then we'll see what we see. OK?"

She nodded.

"Thank you," she said.

Henry burped and startled Sherlock.

"I did it!" he said. "I did something… oh. Oh that's just nasty!"

Laura smiled and took Henry back.

"I think the formula might have been a bit rich for him," John said. "I'll show you were you can feed him yourself if you want."

She nodded and smiled again and followed John up to his room where he made her comfortable. He returned and leaned on the back of his chair to look at Sherlock who was wiping himself down with the muslin.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, quietly.

"You're welcome."

"Should she stay here for the next few days?"

"No. I don't think that would be good for anyone, but I'll call Sally. You call Lestrade." He turned away.

"John?"

"Mm?" he turned back again. Sherlock opened his mouth a few times but didn't say anything.

"Oh, dammit, Sherlock!" John said. "You want him to be yours too now, don't you!"

* * *

**And there I'm ending it, mostly, because I haven't the first idea whether he's Sherlock's son or not. I might decide later.**


	39. Baby 2

**Apparently leaving that one conclusionless was just too cruel. Sorry. An excellent variety of reviews though! The only recurring theme was 'don't not tell us whether he's the father!' So here we are - I've stayed up far too late to get this one to you! Also, it's my longest chapter by far, but there was an awful lot to cover! And if you're going to ask for a baby-fic, there's going to be a lot of baggage going with that.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Baby 2

It had taken Laura Collins about two hours to fall in love with John. John, of cours,e was oblivious. Sherlock was not, and he struggled to find the most appropriate and the _fairest_ response to it. It was, of course, quite a natural reaction. Sherlock was regularly baffled by the fact that everybody else wasn't in love with John. And Laura had arrived terrified, hormonal, and desperate for some sort of protector figure for her baby, and it was clear that the Sherlock she remembered didn't exist.

Sherlock had needed information about the owner of a club. The easiest and quickest way to get this was to woo a member of his staff. The male bar-tender clearly wasn't biting, but the female one, Laura, was. Within two nights he'd bedded her, found out the exact layout of the owners flat, found out exactly where the memory chip was, had broken in, wiped the computer's hard-drive, disabled access to the on-line server, and stolen the memory chip. That was it. Job done. Payment two thousand pounds, thank you very much.

What he hadn't known was that Laura had given herself away far too easily, and had been pretty promptly fired. She went home to the waiting fist of her boyfriend, who was angry that she'd lost a steady income. Five weeks later she discovered she was pregnant. She'd hidden it from Matt as long as she was able, scared that he'd realise it might not be his, and scared that he'd order her to get rid of it. She wondered about aborting but found she couldn't face it. She wandered through the pregnancy lost, working short-term, part-time jobs, and managing to hide her belly until she was twenty-two weeks. When she informed Matt that he was going to have a son, he'd taken the skin off her back with a leather belt. He'd then disappeared for four days.

She'd found Sherlock's name and address, and she'd thought about contacting him before the birth. In the end, she'd spent the rest of the pregnancy hidden in fear and pain.

She had thought she'd been in labour for a few hours, but when Matt screamed and shouted at her and stormed out, she was suddenly sure that the pain in her back wasn't just fear. She caught the bus to the hospital on her own, hoping desperately that she wouldn't give birth in the isle. In fact she'd only been three centimetres dilated when she'd arrived and they asked her to go home again. When she'd cried hysterically they'd allowed her to stay, but insisted she waited in the communal waiting room as they needed the delivery rooms. She was there twenty hours, labouring slowly and alone under the gaze of strangers until she was deemed ready for a room.

The delivery itself was long and difficult as she was too exhausted, hungry, and afraid to focus properly. She only avoided surgery because of the sudden appearance of a mature but firm midwife who told everyone, including her, what was what. Henry appeared at just after three in the morning, with a large bruise on his head from the ventouse that had pulled him out of her.

Matt had arrived the following day having tracked her down overnight. From his smell and drunken state she realised he hadn't been home since he'd screamed at her and had been drinking solidly since. He looked at the baby briefly, and his first words were 'well, he doesn't exactly look like me, does he? Slut.' He'd been asked to leave by the ward Sister and he went without a fuss, not waiting to find out when Laura would need help getting home. The Sister came back and told her that she looked a bit anaemic, and she wanted to keep her there another night.

She had nothing at home for the baby. Matt had insisted that they wait 'just in case', so she'd borrowed a vest and a blanket and the carrier from a neighbour, and had managed to save just over four hundred pounds of her wages towards equipment. She'd known that she'd have to leave Matt, but she didn't know how, and didn't see how she could afford it without help, and asking for child maintenance would mean sometimes leaving the baby alone with Matt.

When she'd been checked out of hospital the following day, she sat in the taxi for nearly an hour before deciding to go to Sherlock's. She'd wondered about waiting there too, but she thought she'd probably be able to cope with Matt as long as she knew the baby was safe. She'd tell him the baby died or something. He wouldn't care. So she wrote a hurried note on some paper she had in her handbag, she took him to the park for one last feed, and then she left him on the doorstep and fled. She'd returned to the park and cried for about two hours before walking like a zombie back to the black door. She'd been baffled when a blonde gentleman opened the door, but he seemed to have been expecting her, so she followed him inside.

This was the story that John gently drew from her over the course of about three hours, in-between bringing her tea and food and water and allowing her quiet to breastfeed. He'd sat beside her while she talked to Sally, not questioning, not pushing, only guiding towards certain pertinent facts that he felt that Sally ought to hear. She had two photos on her phone of damage he'd done to her arms once, not great quality, but enough, Sally thought, to prosecute for assault if she wanted to. She said she'd come back in a few days when Laura had had time to think about it. During all of this time, Sherlock cradled Henry, just handing him back when he seemed to want a feed. John barely spoke or looked at him.

Laura looked at John with eyes of wonder, and for a moment Sherlock entertained the idea that the two of them should be allowed to settle down together. She would have the most perfect father for her baby (and if it was his baby, then he'd prefer it had the best father possible too) and John would have the child he clearly wanted. It was only for a second though, before the notion became too painful. He responded to his confusion by touching John regularly when Laura was around. Nothing obvious, just little brushes on the shoulder, or a hold of the hand. He hoped that Laura would suddenly understand and back off. Then John told him he felt he was being scent-marked and could he kindly lay off, and Sherlock retreated to cradle Henry and make tea depending on the immediate need. He reflected, as he let Henry sleep across his knees, that the baby was probably the person who liked him best in the flat at that moment.

He'd insisted that Laura stayed with them until a suitable place could be found for her and Henry. John had nodded his agreement, and thanked him somewhat formally. Sherlock didn't share his logic that if Laura was sleeping with Henry in John's room, John would have to sleep in with him.

In fact John didn't seem to be willing to go to bed anywhere at all, and he stayed up long into the night, biting his nails and staring at the television. Eventually he did head through to Sherlock's room and Sherlock had followed. They'd slept back to back and John had said nothing to him at all.

Sherlock lay there for a long time, thinking about everything and having nobody to chat things through with.

oOo

John woke up and wondered why Sherlock wasn't restricting him with his many, stupidly long limbs or bothering him for sex. The events of the previous day suddenly came back to him, and he realised that Sherlock was doing the Sherlock equivalent of giving him some space.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied quickly. John got the impression he'd been awake for a while.

"Do you want breakfast?"

"Yes please."

They got up and John went to the kitchen to put the kettle and the toast on.

"So," he said, when Sherlock had joined him again, "what are your plans for the day?"

"I don't know. I think I should probably start looking for somewhere for Laura and Henry to live in the short term."

"Mm."

"I was thinking about 221C."

John frowned. "It's a bit dark and damp though, don't you think? I'm not sure it would be nice for a baby."

"No, well not at the moment, but both are fixable. It would take work and money, but Mrs Hudson's been talking about doing it as long as I've known her, and if I gave her the capital…"

"It would take weeks and weeks though, Sherlock."

"Yes. I'm not suggesting they stay here until then," Sherlock said. "I mean, we do have space… but, I'm not sure it's practical. I don't know. But perhaps they could stay in a short term let for a while. Or here. I don't know."

John sat down with his coffee and toast.

"Sherlock, would you really feel able to have them here, in this building? What if Laura finds someone else to be with? How would you feel about that?"

"I'd feel nothing. I don't want to be with Laura, I want to be with you."

John ignored the compliment.

"But you might experience Henry bonding with another man. He might, at some point, have yet another father figure in his life."

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that." He thought about it now and struggled to work out what he should feel about it. Logically, if his mother loved a man who treated the two of them kindly, then that must be good for him, so he was disturbed to feel it rankle slightly. He felt silly for not finding the concept a relief. He shook his head and looked at John.

"What about you?" he said. "How would you cope, seeing the fruit of my infidelity day after day?"

John winced. "I might not be living here," he pointed out.

Sherlock took a breath and stared at the steam, rising from his coffee.

"Sorry," John said. "That was unfair. Sherlock, I'm sorry, I find I'm not ready to talk about this from the perspective of me just yet. I've sort of put it into an order in my head, where first we have to make sure Henry and Laura are settled, then you, and then me afterwards. We'll deal with it in that order."

"I don't come before you."

"Well you might. If you're the child's father then you have a certain amount of rights and responsibilities, and they need to be taken care of too. I'm way at the back of the queue, which I'm not saying to be pitiful, it's just a fact. We'll sort stuff out in that order. I can cope with that order."

Sherlock looked at him for a while but didn't say anything. He just nodded.

"Anyway," John said, "we might be jumping the gun a bit. He might not be yours at all."

"No. Christ, John, I don't mind telling you it's killing me not knowing. Sorry. I don't mean that to be pushy, of course I'll wait until Laura and Henry are ready, but it's driving me to distraction."

"Mm. Actually I'm rethinking that plan myself. I think it's bothering Laura too, and that bothers me. It'll take a couple of weeks to get the results anyway. I'm going to suggest the test to her again."

"OK."

There was a sudden wail from above them and they both looked upwards.

"He was awake a lot in the night," Sherlock said.

"They feed round the clock at this point."

"Poor Laura."

"Mm. Do you want to take tea and toast up, or shall I?"

"I can do it."

He stood up and got on with making breakfast and John watched him for a while.

"Sherlock," he said, "we will talk about this whole thing, but it's… I can't do it yet. I honest to Pete don't know how I feel about it all. I'm angry, certainly, but… well, I don't know about anything else. You'll have to wait."

"I will. You can take as much time as you need."

John nodded and Sherlock took the breakfast up to Laura. He was only away a few minutes but he returned looking distressed.

"What is it?" John asked him.

"Well it's Laura. She looked… well, she looked a mess, frankly."

"She's been awake and feeding the baby most of the night, so she's probably not looking her best. Was there something specific that's worrying you?"

Sherlock shook his head, but looked sheepish.

"I leant her one of your t-shirts," he said. "Sorry; I just thought it would fit her better than mine. She needs something she can… well, to go over her… anyhow, I'll replace it."

"It's fine."

"Hers was wet. Is that normal? I mean wetter than you'd expect from crying."

"It'll be milk. She probably hasn't got any breast-pads or anything, poor thing. She probably doesn't even have a change of underwear. Christ, what a mess." He sat back and rubbed his face for a while. "OK, I'll go out and pick up things for her later? You'll be OK here with her?"

"Of course," Sherlock nodded. "I'll give you money."

"You'll give me your credit card," John said, smiling.

Sherlock smiled back, relieved, but John had already looked away. They were both dressed when Laura came downstairs carrying Henry.

"I'm really sorry," she said to John. "I borrowed a t-shirt."

"It's fine, it's honestly not a problem. I was thinking though, I can go out and get some things for you. Just a few bits and pieces to tide you over until we can work out how and when to go to your old place for your stuff. I think we should wait a couple of weeks though."

She nodded, but looked troubled.

"Look, please, don't go to any trouble. You've both been so kind, especially you John! I really don't deserve it and I shouldn't have come here at all."

"I'm really glad you did," John said.

"Let me take Henry while you eat something," Sherlock said. He held out his arms and Laura handed him across. She looked relieved that someone else was holding him for a short while.

"It really is good of you both," she said again, "and I've been thinking, I've been wondering if we should not wait for the DNA test. I just think… well, I'm feeling uncomfortable with you doing so much when we don't even know. I think I'd rather just know for sure and get it over with."

John nodded. "I can take samples now if you like."

She nodded and sat down while John went to get the test kit. He took a sample from Henry first, very carefully rolling a cotton bud around the inside of his lip as Sherlock held him still. He checked very carefully that the bud was intact when he removed it. Henry gazed at him.

Sherlock dutifully held his mouth open and looked straight into his eyes while John gently took the sample from him. John smiled when he'd finished and gently kissed Sherlock on his obedient mouth. It wasn't exactly a lingering kiss, and John felt it possibly started more questions than it answered, but he couldn't help but feel warm when he saw the relief on Sherlock's face. He put the two buds into test-tubes and went to label them.

"Do you want this in your own name?" he called through to Sherlock.

"Yes," was the answer.

He filled in the relevant forms, and put them in a large envelope.

"I'll need to send this by courier, or I might stop by the lab while I'm out," John said.

"Laura," Sherlock said, "would you like me to go too, and we can take Henry with us? I just think that maybe you'd sleep better if he wasn't in the house. Not for long, of course," he said, when she looked mildly panicked. "Of course I'd bring him back."

John came to stand with him.

"It is an idea," John said. "And you could have our numbers if you started to worry, but I think Sherlock is right." He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You've been more than a little shocked in the past three days, and you need to let your body sleep a bit."

She nodded. "I barely slept with him in the bed. I kept thinking I was going to suffocate him, even though he was on top of all the blankets."

"Well, there you are then," John said. "We can certainly keep him out for an hour if you wanted. Maybe two, but no more than that. We'll bring him right home."

She nodded again and gave a brief smile. She was crying again and John gave her a hug.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry, it's stupid…"

"No, it's hormones more than anything else," John said. "Even mothers who have given birth in the happiest and most comfortable of situations find they spend much of days three to six in tears. Now, what do you want us to do about food? Shall we take a bottle or would you prefer we just brought him back to feed?"

"Um, I don't know," she said, looking slightly bewildered. "I want to feed him myself, but it's really hurting. I think the latch isn't right but I'm too tired and he's too hungry to fix it properly. But if you bottle feed, it'll mess with my supply. But then, I don't want him to be hungry. But then… I don't know."

Sherlock smiled. "How about we take a bottle, but only use it if he's really desperate?"

She nodded and wept a bit more.

"OK, we'll get ready and go out and leave you alone for a bit," John said. "I suspect you'll feel much better after a sleep. Don't forget to have a big drink now though, you'll dehydrate quickly while you feed him."

She nodded and took Henry back as they got ready to go out.

"I have a plan," Sherlock said, as they tried to find socks to suit each of them in various drawers.

"What's your plan?"

"I thought, if we carried him as far as Marble Arch just in our arms, we could buy a pram from the big Mothercare there. Laura has nothing; she's going to need a pram, and it could be my gift to her for… well, for everything."

"How do you propose we get him to Marble Arch?"

"In a cab."

"I'm not sure about having a baby, just in our arms, in a cab. We could do it by Tube though."

"Why is the Tube better?"

"I don't know. It just seems like it is."

"That's insane," Sherlock said.

"What about a bus?"

"What about a cab?"

"Cabs drive too fast."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Tube then."

John packed nappies and changing equipment in his rucksack, and with many exchanges of numbers and insisting that all parties call in the slightest moment of panic, the three of them left.

"I should carry Henry," John said, after a while.

"Why? You're even less likely to be his father than I am."

"I'm significantly less clumsy than you. Which is possibly why I'm less likely to be his father than you are."

"That's not fair," Sherlock said. "I didn't just slip and fall into…" He drifted off, not wanting to finish that sentence. He then turned his ankle on a loose flagstone and stumbled a pace. "I'll be more careful!" he said when John tutted at him.

"Give him here, you have the bag. You can have him when he's safely in a pushchair."

Sherlock sighed and huffed but handed him over and took the bag.

"There you go, little man!" John said. "Let's get you all comfy shall we?" He tucked the sides of his coat around the baby and rested his head against his shoulder. "We need to get you a hat, don't we! You'll get chilly ears! What?" he said, looking at Sherlock.

"Nothing! Nothing at all."

"Come on then. I'd like to get him into the warmth of the tube without too much messing around."

They headed down onto the underground and Sherlock instantly tensed up and stalked up and down through the crowds.

"Stand still," John told him. "You're getting in people's way!"

Sherlock came back and stood with him.

"This was a bad idea," Sherlock said. "There's too many people! What if one of them sneezes on him?"

"He'll live."

"I don't like it."

"It's by far the quickest way to get him to where we need to go, and then he can get a coat and a pram and blankets and then we'll all be happier."

"And a hat. You said he needed a hat."

"We'll get a hat too."

"Fine." Sherlock fretted. "I don't know whether to change at Bond Street and risk even more crowds changing to the Jubilee, or whether we should just walk from there to the shop."

John rolled his eyes and didn't answer.

The Tube came and people flooded onto the platform. Sherlock became quite angry and stood guard with his arms around John and Henry. He frowned at the people bustling by.

John shook his head and Sherlock released him to get onto the train.

Sherlock watched as women in particular seemed to home in on the man with the tiny baby clutched to his chest. John smiled and slightly turned so that people could see Henry's face. Sherlock fought the urge to shout 'he might be my offspring!' feeling that this wouldn't be quite the thing.

They walked from Bond Street, Sherlock hurrying and fretting along the way. He fell into the doors of the shop and looked stupidly relieved.

"We're here, John!" he said. "Is he OK? Is he perfectly well?"

"He's fine. He's asleep against me, and I think he's going to be pretty pissed off when he gets shoved into a cold, non-living pushchair. He'll have no choice though, 'cos my arms are aching."

"You should give him to me then."

"Fine. Here you go. Oh, by the way, I think he needs a change."

Sherlock held the baby back towards him.

"No way," John said. "I'm convinced that you ought to change at least one."

Sherlock sighed. "Is there a special place for this, or do I just strip him down on the floor."

"There's a baby changing room just there." John pointed and followed Sherlock in.

"These pads are clever," Sherlock said, putting Henry down on one. "I suspect these sides are to stop them rolling to the floor."

"For now, yes. They wouldn't do much for a really intent six month old."

"Hm. Do they move a lot by then then? Oh God! John! The thing! The clamp thing!"

John looked. "Oh, his cord's fallen off. Stick it in the nappy bag. No, not the rucksack, the little pink bag you're going to put the dirty nappy in."

"John! It's bleeding!"

John looked. There was a tiny spot of blood where the last bit of cord had been. It was already drying.

"It's fine."

"It's _blood!"_ He backed off and stood by the wall. John was surprised to see that he was fighting tears. "John! I can't do this! I _can't_, I can't, I can't… I can't be a Dad, I can't be!"

John looked at him for a moment, partly wanting to hug him and bolt to safety with him. Mostly he didn't though.

"Sherlock, you either are, or are not this baby's father. Nothing you do right now can alter that, but if you _are_, and you know how much I love you when I say this, but if you _are_, you have to damn well get a grip, and you have to damn well do it right now."

Sherlock looked at him and slowly his breathing calmed down. Henry was beginning to wake and fuss now, so he walked back to him.

"Sorry," he said to Henry. "Sorry, Da… I just had a bit of a strop. It happens. Let's get you sorted out. OK?"

He was still slightly shaken as he undid the nappy.

"Should his excrement be this colour?" he asked. "I'm not panicking, I just want to know."

"Yep, that's normal. You're supposed to use wet cotton wool, but I gave up on that half way through the first one. Here – wipes. And don't hold him up by his legs."

"Thank you." Sherlock wiped, and then he wiped some more, and a bit more. "I think I got it all."

"Good. Roll the nappy up then… if you roll it the other way next time, you can stick it all into a little bundle with the tags, but never mind, stick it in the pink bag. Good. Now the new nappy. That's backwards. Good. Tuck his willy down. Oh don't look like that, just do it. No, it'll need to be tighter. OK, good! You're done!"

"I'm done! Look, Henry! All clean now!" He started pulling the trousers back up. "I'm going to buy him some clothes," he announced. "Mrs Hudson should have these back really."

"Mm. I didn't know that about her," John said, putting the things back in the bag.

"No, I didn't either." He gathered up Henry and jiggled him a bit to stop him crying. Henry seemed content to be held and to go back to sleep. They went back out to the shop floor and looked around.

"Wow," Sherlock said. "I didn't realise babies needed so much stuff."

"Mm. I don't think all of it's strictly necessary. There are prams though."

John took Henry back as Sherlock looked and admired and rolled almost all of the prams around the shop floor. A rather harried assistant talked him through the features of each and every one of them. After an exhaustive search, and finally noticing John checking his watch again, he waved him over.

"I think I like this one. I'm a bit sad that it doesn't have a cup holder as standard, but I think this is the best one."

"Good. I think Henry will probably manage without a cup holder."

"Can we take this one to go?" Sherlock asked the shop assistant.

"Well, I can check stock and see if there's a boxed one here for you…"

"No, we don't need a box. We need a pushchair," Sherlock said. "See! We have a baby here! We don't have a pram. We need something we can strap him into and leave with."

"Um, well, it's not usual…"

"No, probably not," John said. "I think most parents have slightly more notice about these things than he did. If we were to unbox it and put it together in the store, could you get rid of the packaging for us?"

"Er, I should think so," she said, "And congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you. We'll be looking at Moses baskets while you're checking stock. Is that OK?"

She nodded and went off.

"What the hell's a Moses Basket?" Sherlock asked, taking Henry back.

"It's a wicker bed for a small baby. Useful, because you can move it around in a very small flat, or have it on a bed next to you, knowing that you won't inadvertently crush your baby in your sleep. I thought it might be useful for Laura. I'll buy it."

"Why will you buy it?"

"It'll be my gift."

"John, you know that there's absolutely no way that this baby is yours, don't you?"

"I do. Sherlock… look, I know I was all in your face a bit ago, but you do realise that there's only a small chance that this baby is yours, don't you?"

"I do."

"I just… I think I wanted you to feel unnerved a bit, to take this all seriously, but really, from what she's said, there's very little chance that he's yours."

Sherlock looked at Henry for a while and rocked him slightly. Henry had one, long dark curl, it was just a thin strand among the shorter, dark brown fluff thinly spread over his head, and Sherlock ran it between his fingers now, wondering whether to cut it off so he was slightly more uniform, or whether to keep it and hope that the rest of his hair caught up with it. He nodded.

"Yes, I know," he said. "I'm still buying all the presents though. If for no other reason than…" he drifted off. "Sorry, show me these Abraham's cot things."

They'd managed to pile a good amount of bedding, sleep-suits, vests, bibs, two jumpers, a snow-suit, and because Sherlock had become a little excited, five hats, into the Moses basket before the assistant came back, pushing a bright red pushchair towards them.

"I thought I'd assemble it with the flat carrycot," she said. "The seat for when he's a bit older is just underneath though, and you just unclip this one and put the other on. Is that OK?"

They thanked her profusely for her kindness, and Sherlock put Henry in it.

"He likes it," he announced.

"Has he noticed the cup-holder problem yet?" John asked. Sherlock smiled at him. "Oh, god, I forgot all of the stuff for Laura." He looked at the young assistant and wondered if she worked on commission. "Look, the Mum's at home, having a sleep, but she hasn't got anything at all. Do you sell, I don't know, er, breast-pads and nursing bras and that sort of thing?"

"We do, but we suggest that the mothers come in for measuring."

"She can later, but this is an emergency. Can we buy at least one?"

"Do you want to come upstairs with me?"

John nodded. "Can we start putting this stuff through the till? Then Sherlock can get him a bit more dressed for the outside. Sorry, to cause chaos in your store this morning."

She assured him it was fine, and steered them towards the check outs. She explained to a colleague what was happening, and took John along to the ladies wear. John returned within fifteen minutes with more things that he piled into the basket. John looked down to where Henry was now well bundled up in the pram.

"I couldn't decide between the blue hat and the white. The blue hat is a very nice colour, but the white one has ear-flaps. He looks like he's wearing a little deerstalker which is either silly or cute, I'm not sure which. I thought it would keep his ears warm though."

"Put the white one on him, hand over your credit card and let's take him home before he gets hungry again." He looked at the till. "Nine hundred and sixty pounds?" he squeaked. "How expensive was the pram?"

"It was six hundred and ninety five pounds."

"Seven hundred pounds on a pram?"

"No, not seven hundred, six hundred and…"

"On a pram?"

"Yes. My budget was two thousand. This was less than that. And it is the best pram here! I checked them all!"

"But…" John became aware of the helpful assistants and the numerous huge bags full of stuff that were around them. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, it's fine, I was just surprised, that's all. Sorry."

The two shop girls still looked slightly wary, as if they suddenly thought that Sherlock and John were going to peg it out the door with a neatly made up pram and a bundled up baby. They looked relieved when Sherlock handed his card over to them. He gave John a look.

"I was just surprised," John muttered. "Anyhow, we'll need a cab on the way back."

"So a cab's now fine that the baby is lying loose in a carrycot, rather than in our arms?"

"Yes."

"Can you explain why?"

"No. Can you shut up?"

"It's doubtful." His card was handed back and he thanked the girls. He proudly pushed the pushchair out of the door, leaving John to follow with the bags of purchases and the Moses basket. Sherlock hailed a cab and the two of them bundled inside. They sat back, relaxed as they set off.

"I'm going to take his hat off again," Sherlock said. "It's perfectly warm in the cab and now you can see his hair."

"Why would I want to see his hair?"

"I didn't mean you particularly. I meant, his hair can now be seen."

John looked at him, frowning.

"By whom?"

Sherlock blushed for a moment. "I just think he has nice hair, that's all. There's no need to make a big thing of it."

"OK. Good." John looked out of the window for a while. "Look, I'm pleased, Sherlock, that you've now embraced the concept that Henry might be yours, but I really think you need to start working on the concept that he might not be too."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, thank you." He stroked Henry's tiny fists that were clenched up either side of his head as he slept.

John nodded. He flicked the communication switch to off so that they could talk in relative privacy and Sherlock looked at him.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not there yet, but you might as well know where I am so far." Sherlock nodded. "I love you, you know that, I know that, it's just a truth. I don't want to leave you." Sherlock smiled. "But…" Sherlock's face fell again, "I think the two things that I'm really struggling with are these. The first, and actually the main thing, is that you just blaze thought life not caring who gets trampled in your wake."

"I would never do that to you though."

"No, I know that, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm with a person who really doesn't seem to care who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants. And while I love you, I really hate that aspect of you. It's a pretty big thing for me to just look away from. And the stupid thing is, it's not like this is new! It's always been there, I've always known it, but this… well, this makes the whole thing more obvious. It's a big deal."

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. "And the second thing?"

"I'm not sure I've finished with the first. The budget for this trip was two thousand pounds."

"Yes."

"Because that's the money you made on the job you took that lost Laura her job."

"Yes."

"So you do know, don't you. You know your actions change lives."

"Yes, yes I do but… I can't… I didn't know before. I didn't find out anything about her or her background. I admit, she could have been anyone. It worries me."

"Mm. It worries me too. But let's leave that there and go to point two. That thing is obviously the sex."

"Yes."

"Now once again I can justify it all in my head. I can say, 'oh, Sherlock doesn't think that way, it's just an action, an activity, he doesn't treat it like it's a huge, emotional deal so the physical act is largely irrelevant' and again, that's nice and convenient and it's probably also true, but then there's a little voice that's saying 'But what about me? If sex is meaningless to Sherlock, then what the hell's going through his mind whenever he's sleeping with me?'"

Sherlock looked at the floor.

"If I tell you it's different with you, that won't be enough, will it?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Sherlock looked out of the window and swallowed a few times. Baker Street came into view and he almost asked the cabbie to drive around the block a few times. He didn't though and they pulled in and started unloading the bags and the pram. Sherlock handed cash through the window and then they stood looking at each other for a while.

"Look, can we dump the stuff in the hallway and then take him for just a little walk?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded and did so. They fell into step with Sherlock pushing the pram and John walking next to him.

"Oh!" Sherlock said. "I need to put his hat back on." He pulled it from his pocket and pulled it back over Henry's ears. He nodded, satisfied, and they walked on. "Look, John, you know how I can cry whenever I want to, but I also cry sometimes, just because I actually need to?"

"I do. And you're about to tell me the sex is like that."

"The sex is like that." They walk on a while. "Only, actually the sex wasn't like that." Sherlock went on. "I never wanteded to have sex just because I wanted to have sex. Perhaps when I was younger, maybe, but not really. I could, however, control myself to the extent that if I _needed_ to have sex, then I was able to perform."

"OK," John said. "That's… I don't actually know what that is. But it does beg the question whether you've ever controlled yourself just so you can perform with me?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. I have." John felt cold disappointment run through him. "Not for ages though. In the early days I wasn't sure how it worked in a relationship. I wasn't sure what was necessary, so there were times when I thought I needed to appear eager. But then quite quickly, most of the time I was just eager, so I stopped worrying about it."

"Right."

"I also want you to know that since we first had sex with each other, I swear to you, I've never slept with anyone!"

"Good. That was another question."

"If I'm entirely honest, some of that might be because it's never come up. I mean, it's never been necessary, but I also mean, I'm not sure if I could any more. I think you've broken me. I tried, last night, I tried to see if I could just concentrate and make it happen and I couldn't. On the other hand, I was also stressed and distracted last night, so that might have been a factor, and perhaps I should try again when that's not an issue. Not that I'd ever have necessary sex with…"

"Sherlock, please, for the love of god will you stop talking about your penis!"

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him. He was relieved, and slightly confused, that John looked amused.

"OK, let's take young Henry home," John said. "He'll wake up hungry in about two minutes and he'll be greatly distressed that I've left the bottle in the bag which I just dumped in the hallway."

"OK."

"We'll continue this conversation in a few days and we'll see what's what, but for the time being, let's just take some time and give each other a little space and see. OK?"

Sherlock nodded. He turned the pram around and they headed home.

oOo

Sherlock thudded down the stairs as the bell rang a second time. Part of him hoped it was a client so that he could get back into the swing of working, and part of him hoped it wasn't so that he could just go back upstairs and go back to bed for a while.

He was unhappy to find it was Mycroft and therefore he could do neither.

"What do you want?" he said.

"To wish you season's greetings, of course!"

"You did that at your stupid party last week."

"Actually, I don't want you at all, I want John, I've cut my finger." He held up his hand to show a blood-stained silk handkerchief tied around his index finger.

"You're out of luck; John's not getting up today."

Mycroft frowned. "All day?"

"That's what he says. You'll have to see your doctor."

"My doctor is in the Seychelles. What's wrong with John? Is he ill?"

"No, he's fine. We had a houseguest until yesterday, John found it a little tiring, and he wants to stay in bed today. I've said that's fine."

"Ah yes. This would be your very young houseguest, would it?"

Sherlock's face clouded over. He bit his lip, but he opened the door wider so that Mycroft could come inside. He followed him up the stairs and into the kitchen.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked.

"I intercepted this." He held up a formal looking letter.

Sherlock winced. "That shouldn't be back for ages yet."

"And yet, here it is." Mycroft put the envelope on the table.

"Mycroft… have you… have you tampered with this? With the results?"

"I have not."

"But you've read it."

"Yes."

Sherlock stared at the letter on the table for a moment.

"Sit down," he said. "Let me see your finger."

Mycroft obeyed and unwrapped the handkerchief. Sherlock had a close look.

"I think this is fine. I've got some butterfly stitches that'll hold it, and a clean bandage will probably sort it out."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I'm not getting John up for you. Me, or casualty?"

"If you would be so kind."

Sherlock reached for the first aid box and selected what he needed. Mycroft watched him.

"It was just a physical act," Sherlock said suddenly. "John understands that. It was work, it was the means to an end. You sit around in your office and don't get out and do the actual field work, but I do. Sometimes I have to do things I'm not proud of."

"It was extraordinarily lazy."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"It was," Mycroft said. "You could have found alternative means. You could have charmed her slowly, teased your way along bit by bit, but you were impatient and impulsive, so you had sex and acted as though she was the only think in your universe and she believed you absolutely when she saw how much you wanted her."

"She…" He stopped. He didn't have anything to say.

"I have to admit, I was surprised," Mycroft said. "I wasn't aware that your relationship with John was quite as open as that." Sherlock started cleaning the cut with an antiseptic wipe and Mycroft hissed. "Of course it makes sense now I've thought about it," he continued. "John is a hot-blooded and virile man. You are not. It makes sense for him to be able to leave and get relief elsewhere when he needs it." Sherlock stopped cleaning the finger and glared at Mycroft. "Ah, I see. The openness isn't expected to work two ways. That's interesting, isn't it? You see, I would have thought that the first thing you'd do would be to imagine what you would have felt like in John's position. But then I've never claimed to understand how empathy works."

Sherlock pouted and went back to the finger. He carefully put two butterfly dressings over the cut, and then he wrapped the finger in a bandage.

"There, that's done. You can leave now."

"You've done a very good job!"

"I've had a very good teacher."

"Well thank you, Sherlock. Goodbye now. Perhaps I'll see you again over Christmas."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock waited until the door slammed, and then he picked up the envelope, walked through to his bedroom and stood in the doorway.

"Mycroft was here," he told John.

"I thought I heard his dulcet tones."

"Mm. He brought this." He held up the envelope containing the test results. "He seems to have speeded things along a little bit."

"OK. I'd better get up then. You should call Laura; she should come back for this."

"Yes. John?"

"Mm?"

"It occurs to me now that amidst all my explaining the other day, I entirely forgot to apologise to you. I'm very, very sorry. I'm not sorry that Henry exists, obviously, because he's amazing, but I'm so very sorry that I hurt you. I can assure you that I'll never do anything so stupid and selfish again. Whatever you choose to do in the future, I will never again, ever act in a way that might hurt you."

John looked at him for a while.

"Thank you. That helps."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll go and call Laura."

She returned quickly from the little flat they'd found for her in Kentish Town. She sat at the kitchen table with Henry on her lap, hidden underneath her t-shirt, feeding again. John sat opposite and Sherlock between them. All three stared at the envelope. They'd chatted about the flat and made tea before they could bring themselves to mention it.

"OK, shall I just get this over with?" John asked.

Laura nodded, looking pale. He opened it and spread the letter on the table. Sherlock could see the figures at the bottom and he felt his breath catching.

"OK," John said, "There's less than a one per cent chance that Sherlock's the father of Henry. So there we are."

Sherlock glanced at Laura to see how she'd taken it, but found that his own vision was swimming and his face was aching. He pushed himself up from the table and hurried to his bedroom before he disgraced himself entirely. He sat down on the end of the bed fought hard to try to control himself. After a moment he realised it was futile so he stopped trying and sobbed for a while.

He tried to tell himself that this must be relief, and just a reaction to all the build-up of stress over the past couple of days.

He was there a few minutes before John joined him. He found himself being embraced and held up and he clung onto John and sobbed against his jumper for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry," John said quietly, rubbing his back. "It's OK now, it's all right. Come on, calm down."

Sherlock slowly calmed down and pulled away from John.

"God, you must think I'm ridiculous," he said, wiping his face.

"Yes, regularly," John said. "Not for this though."

Sherlock shook his head and wiped his face again. He suddenly looked panicked.

"Is Henry still here?"

"Yes. He's still feeding and I asked Laura to stay a bit. Is that OK?"

"Yes. I want to say goodbye to him. I don't want my last memory of him to be his feet sticking out from beneath a baggy t-shirt."

"OK. Clean yourself up and come back out."

"It's probably is for the best, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I have to be honest; it doesn't feel that way to me at the moment. Go and wash, and then come back in."

Sherlock nodded and John left him alone. He sat there for another few moments, and then he headed through to the bathroom. He couldn't make much of a difference to his face, but he felt slightly better, and he went back to the kitchen. Laura was weeping too, and it occurred to him that she'd probably lost more than he had at that moment. The whole thing suddenly felt horribly unfair. He was handed a fresh cup of tea and they sat down again.

John spread the paper out on the table again.

"What I'm wondering is this," he said. "It strikes me that none of the three of us are happy with the results in the letter. So I'm wondering if we can't just, I don't know, burn the ruddy thing and pretend that it never happened. After all, if this had happened fifty years ago, we'd all have looked and thought 'well, he's got Sherlock's hair', and that would be the end of it."

Laura shook her head hard.

"No. I won't do it. I know what you're saying but I'm not going to have someone take care of a child that's not his!"

"I can't forget, John." Sherlock said. "He's not mine, and yes, I'm disappointed, I'm honestly surprised by how disappointed I am, but my it won't change by pretending he's mine. I'd always know."

"Would you? Are you sure that's the way it would be?"

Sherlock frowned and quietly thought about this.

John sighed. "Look, Laura, would Matt ever ask for a paternity test if you told him that Henry wasn't his?"

"No. No I think he'd laugh at his escape from it."

"So if you were to turn around and say that actually he's someone else's, that would effectively cut Matt out of Henry's life completely."

"Well… yes. It doesn't seem right though…"

"I really don't think he should be allowed anywhere near the child. Obviously it's up to you."

"You're right though. He couldn't be near him ever. I'd rather do it in absolute poverty than let him anywhere near Henry."

"OK, so Sherlock, if someone was to ask you 'Is he your baby?' do you think you could perhaps answer in such a way that you don't incriminate yourself?"

"Yes. Yes I could."

"And Laura, would you object to maybe coming around for visits every now and again? Not all the time, I don't want to swamp you, but I like the little chap. I'd like to see him again, and if you wanted to turn up for the occasional Sunday lunch, then I'd like that."

"I could certainly visit for lunch, but… I don't want you to feel obligated."

"I wouldn't feel obligated," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't feel that at all! In fact the more I think about it, the more I think it would work better without the obligation. And look, you'll need to find your feet a bit too. Perhaps you'll do a course and go back to work at some point. If you found you needed a bit of babysitting, perhaps not all the time, but if you wanted to leave him with us for a while, he'd be perfectly safe with us."

"Yes," John said. "Other people leave their children with their family and friends when they need help. That sort of thing happens all the time. This would just be like that."

They all stared at the letter some more.

"So what I'm saying is," John said. "We could actually put the letter on the fire, and technically nobody need ever know the difference."

"Mycroft's read it," Sherlock said. "He'd know."

"Mm," John said. "Well, I'm wondering if this is the time you stop behaving in a certain way, simply because you think you're constantly worrying about what your brother thinks of you. Look, I'm an innocent bystander here. It needs to be up to the two of you, but my vote is for burning the ruddy thing, and all of us getting on with our lives as we would have done if it had said something else."

They stared at the letter for a while until Henry wriggled and fussed. Laura hooked her clothing all back into place and she looked at Henry for a while. Slowly, she nodded.

"I don't want to lie. And I think it should be mostly up to Sherlock, but I don't want to put Matt's name down on the birth certificate. I'm happy to say I don't know who the Dad is, because I suppose technically I could argue I still don't. I mean, it really couldn't be anyone else but... Anyway, I think I'll say I don't know. The rest is up to you, Sherlock."

"Hand him here," Sherlock said. "I can do the burping bit."


	40. Caffeine

**Right, hopefully back to service as usual after a brief detour around the subject of babies. **

**ThisIsForYou requested a caffeine overdose, so this is for you, ThisIsForYou!**

* * *

Caffeine

John sat on the sofa, watching TV, and quietly fuming. Every now and again, he'd tell himself off for fuming, and he'd walk around the flat, perhaps make a cup of tea, try some other channel, and settle down again to let the fuming slowly build up again.

Eventually the quiet in the flat ended as Sherlock arrived home, slammed the downstairs door behind him, ran up the steps, and virtually skidded to a stop in front of John.

"John! Hello! John! I'm really sorry! I know, I know, I _know_, and you should know I'm _really _sorry! But I'm here now, and that's the main…. So we can decorate the… Oh! You decorated! It looks nice! So we can go, you know, that place, with those things, the things for you know…" he waved his arm at the Christmas tree. "The thing with the man in red, we'll go now, I know we're late, but I'm here now. And you decorated!" He started pacing up and down the living room. "It looks great! You know what I hate though? Decorations! Not here! These are all great! This is lovely! But the ones in the streets, they're bloody awful! You know the ones that light up every bloody corner where someone might like to stand unobserved! And you know what else? They're a bloody waste of electricity! No thought for the planet these people haven't got! Blackpool! Blackpool needs lights, god knows it's got little else to offer, they should stay there! There and Oxford Street! They're allowed the lights because they're big and proper and it's OK, but everywhere else should be not." He'd come to a standstill by his chair and his legs seemed to just crumple underneath him. "I'm sitting down now! It's fine, there's a chair!"

John shook himself out of his stunned silence.

"Sherlock? What the hell have you done?"

"What? Nothing! Oh! All this…_this. _I know what you're thinking and you're no, not right, no. No! No, no, no. No, there are no drugs involved. Well caffeine and sugar, a lot of sugar. You see what happened was that I was worried, because we had things to do and it had to be today! But then I was working, and then there was a night-time, and I was watching, and doing, and all those things with the coat, and then there was today, and then there was Boyle, you know Boyle? Oh, you should meet Boyle. Insipid little creature, but bloody brilliant too, and he said that sometimes when he needs to be awake because of angry people, he drinks Red Bull. He had one, he gave it to me, I drank it, and it was wonderful! Actually, it was foul. Far too sweet. Far, far too sweet. But good though!"

"OK, so you had a can of Red Bull and countless cups of coffee on no food…"

"No! No, no, no! No! You get so cross, so I did do eating, I made sure I did! There were apples and biscuits and peanut brittle, and then you can't get angry!"

"No, Sherlock, one can of Red Bull wouldn't…"

"No! No, then I came home and it was brilliant! No! First I set off for home, and then I went to a shop and bought four more! We have things to do you see! We have shops and decorating, only you've already decorated, but we have shopping to do, so I can't sleep, so I had the cans."

"OK, Sherlock…"

"Christ, my head's throbbing." He slumped in his chair and went quiet.

"Yes, that's the…"

"I think I need tea!" Sherlock announced, and he quickly stood up and hurried to the kitchen. "I need tea! Tea, John? Would you like some? Tea?"

John followed him and attempted to intercept before he got to the kettle.

"No, you absolutely do not need tea!"

Sherlock bobbed about in front of him, as if he was trying to feint him and get to the kettle.

John rubbed his face.

"Sherlock, go and sit down, and I'll bring you some water."

"No! I'm fine, John, I'm fine! We have to go to the shops! Only, I'm going to sit down now. My body is not quite right. I'll sit down, then shops." He headed back towards his armchair and sat in it. "We have to go today, you said, you said today! You're wrong, John, we have days… Oo! Wrong John! That rhymes! Wrong John, wrong, John, John that is wrong. There was a young man called John, who was regularly, oftenly wrong! Wrong John. Wrong doesn't rhyme with Sherlock! You know what should rhyme with Sherlock? Right! It doesn't though. Not the way wrong rhymes with John. Wrong John, wrong John. I should stop saying wrong John now; that's the sort of thing that really pisses you off. What's this?"

"It's water. Drink it."

"Oh! You know what's a really good drink? I had it today! Red Bull! Doesn't give you wings though; gives you heart palpitations. What are you doing?"

"I'm taking your pulse, and trying to decide whether to dose you the other way or not. Sit still."

"I do sit still! I always sit still! This is a rubbish chair." He got up and shifted himself to John's chair.

John stopped trying to take his pulse, sat down opposite him, and rested his head on his hand to observe.

"Your chair is much better than mine!" Sherlock told him. "Much better! I mean, yes it's old and weird and all that, but mine is god-damned ugly. Really ugly. I mean… I don't even remember where I got it from. Maybe it's not mine at all! Maybe it was just in a house and I forgot and took it. Who knows? Who knows where the ugly chair came from."

"It's Mrs Hudson's. It came with the flat."

"Really? It's not mine? It's think it's mine! I sit on it! Even though it's god-damned ugly. What's this?"

"It's water, would you please drink it?"

"Yeah. It's water all right. Yum. Water."

He took two mouthfuls and set off around the flat again, sloshing it everywhere, and John followed and managed to take it back from him.

"Are you going to do that thing?" Sherlock asked, pacing up and down the kitchen. "That you said? With the drugs? Because I'm feeling a bit strange now!"

"Yeah, I'm thinking of just letting you suffer for a bit actually. I don't think you're that bad."

Sherlock turned to look at him.

"I'm going to sit down now." He set off back towards his chair but stopped before he got there. "What's that in the corner?"

"It's a Christmas tree, Sherlock."

"Is it losing its religion?" He laughed for a short while. "No! No, there's a corner behind the tree. That's bad, John, that's very bad! All manner of people could be there behind the tree."

"No, because the tree's only three foot high, and it's pretty well wedged against the wall."

"No, trees shouldn't be in corners! You know here it should be? Here! In the middle."

"We can't have a Christmas tree right in the middle of the room, Sherlock!"

"No, it needs to go here!" he stood on the coffee table. "Here! Just here! I'll move it now! I'll move it, because you decorated, and that's fair. Oo, dizzy now."

John guided him from the table and back to his chair.

"Bit hurt," Sherlock said quietly.

"Where does it hurt?"

"Stomach."

"Point. OK, that's not your stomach, that's your intestines. The problem is; caffeine can sometimes be a bit of a laxative."

"Oh. That's good to know. I'll remember that. That's one of those interesting facts that you know."

"Yeah."

"Oh, it hurts!"

"Yeah. Go and use the bathroom and it will stop hurting."

"OK."

Sherlock set off, dropping his coat to the kitchen floor as he went. John sat down on the sofa, tried to work out when he could next get out to finish the last bit of Christmas shopping, and quietly fumed.


	41. Tonsillitis

**Prompted by Lumoa, ages and ages ago! Also by CharlieBrown1234 in response to the 'Nobody's Ill!' title I did a while back.**

Tonsillitis

Sherlock woke up hot, slightly suffocating, and drenched in sweat. He panicked for a moment until he heard the noisy, gurgling snore from John, at which point he realised that he was being suffocated, overheated and sweated on by a sick doctor.

He very gently rolled John over so that he was no longer trapped beneath him, and kicked some of the duvet away to cool down. John stirred, but didn't wake up immediately. It didn't take long though before the masses of mucus caused him to choke a bit and he opened his eyes, wincing in pain.

"You all right?" Sherlock asked him.

John stopped coughing and nodded. He swallowed and winced again, closed his eyes, rolled over, and rubbed his face into his pillow.

"You really shouldn't get up today," Sherlock told him. "Why don't you stay in bed and I'll bring you tea and paracetamol and stuff."

John grunted. After a moment he rolled over.

"Can't. Got to get up. Stuff to do."

"There's nothing that can't wait."

"There is though!" John winced again and rubbed his forehead. "It's just a cold."

"It seems like a pretty bad cold."

"I'm fine. Give me a minute to wake up, and I'll make breakfast."

"Or I could make breakfast."

"I'm _fine._"

Sherlock grinned at him and leapt out of bed.

"Stay there. I'll bring you tea and toast."

John grunted again but didn't move. Sherlock briefly entertained the idea that he might have won.

It didn't last long. He was waiting for the kettle to boil when John appeared, staggering down the hallway. He managed to get to the kitchen, where he collapsed onto a kitchen chair.

"John, there's no way you can face Regent Street today."

John shook his head. "Have to," he murmured.

"No you don't! There's nobody to buy a gift for who won't feel horribly guilty that you trekked to the shops while clearly ill!"

"There's Henry." John croaked.

"Henry's four weeks old. He won't know or care whether there's a present for him from you. Besides, you buy the blasted child presents every time you see him."

"Jealous."

"Hardly. You can't make it to Hamleys. Hell, I doubt you could even make it to Speedy's right now!"

"It's just a cold."

"No, it's not! I've seen you with a cold and you're grumpy but normal. This isn't normal."

"Stop shouting."

"I'm not shouting! I'm speaking in my usual, everyday voice!"

"Stop speaking then."

John slumped down so that his head was resting on his arms.

"John, you can't possibly go shopping today. You just can't. Here, drink this tea."

John sat up and looked at the tea.

"I'm fine," he mumbled.

"Hang on a second." Sherlock charged out of the room to grab the shaving mirror from the bathroom. "Look at you John! Look! You'll scare the children! You look like something from a Hammer zombie film!"

John looked at himself in the mirror. It was true that he did look a little on the pale side, and his eyes were slightly more bloodshot than usual, and being honest, he was looking particularly a hundred and twenty years old or so today.

"Pass me a torch," he said.

Sherlock grabbed one from the kitchen drawer and handed it over. John shone it in his mouth while looking in the mirror. He turned it off, put everything down and sighed.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. Just a cold." He slumped his head down on the table again.

Sherlock walked around the table and rubbed John's head for a while. John grunted again.

"Here's an idea," Sherlock said. "I'll carry your cup of tea to bed, so you have no choice but to go there to drink it. I'll bring you pain killers of many sorts for you to consume, and in two hours, if you're miraculously better, we can get a cab and go to the stupid shops then."

John grunted again. Sherlock picked up the tea and took it into the bedroom. He got back to the kitchen to find that John had managed to stand up, briefly, and was now leaning against the kitchen door, shivering. He reached out for the bar stool for balance but Sherlock got to him first.

"Seriously, are you going to have to faint to realise I'm right?" he asked.

"Not gonna faint," John grumbled.

"Want to bet on that."

"… no."

Sherlock grinned and helped him get back to the bedroom and into the bed. John lay still for a moment, just quivering slightly.

"See, didn't faint," he said eventually.

"No. Well done you. Now tell me what you need me to do, or I'll tickle you, and let's see if you can survive that without fainting."

John gave him a wan smile. "Can you get me water, paracetamol, ibuprofen and my phone?"

"What do you need your phone for?"

"To text Mike for penicillin. I've gone and got tonsillitis three days before sodding Christmas."

"Oh John!"

"It's not my fault! And I'll feel better in a bit. I can still cook Christmas dinner. And buy stuff for Christmas dinner. And buy presents. And take a casserole round to Laura's. And there was something else, but I've forgotten what."

"Look, I can certainly do at least some of that. And I can apologise for the rest of it not happening. After all, it was my fault we didn't start all this at the weekend."

"Yes it was."

"And I've apologised for that!"

"Not enough."

"Fine. Let me go and get the stuff you need, then I'll storm out in a huff and make all the rest of that other stuff happen. OK?"

"Sherlock, I really don't think you can…"

"I can manage! I'm honestly not as incapable as you seem to think I am!"

"Really?"

"Really. I will absolutely prove it to you. Promise."

oOo

Three hours later John's phone buzzed with a text and he opened his eyes and reached for it.

'_What about chess set for H?'_ it read.

John sighed and called Sherlock. He was treated to the noise of a busy, crowded shop before he heard Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock, he's four weeks old," he croaked.

"Yes, I know. So?"

"So I think that a chess set might be a bit beyond him."

"He's very advanced."

"Not that advanced."

"Well what do you suggest then? They've got die-cast soldiers too. I don't think they're made from lead anymore, will that do?"

"I think you're on the wrong floor, Sherlock."

"No, this was the only floor that looked halfway sane."

"Find an assistant, ask where the baby stuff is, find it, and call me back."

He hung up.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock called back.

"How are you feeling, anyway?" he asked. "Sorry, I forgot to ask before."

"Like shit, and the talking's hurting my throat."

"Mm. I can barely hear you too, which is annoying."

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you. Tell me what you're looking at."

"Things. The general theme is colourful and soft."

"Good. Close your eyes, turn around, reach out your arm and grab something. From the shelf ideally, and not another person."

There was a silence while Sherlock did this.

"Well I've picked up some cloth blocks!" Sherlock said.

"Good. Buy them."

"But that's hardly thoughtful or interesting."

"It is to Henry."

"Wait a second, these ones look better. They're brighter and have textures… Oh! They rattle and have bells in them! That's quite nice, isn't it? I think he'd like these ones!"

"Good. Buy them. Then go to Liberty's and buy a scarf for Mrs Hudson."

"Does she want a scarf?"

"Yes. She told me. She said 'I really hope Father Christmas gets me a scarf this year, John. It's all I've ever wanted. I hope he goes to Liberty's and just chooses any one of the hundred of silk scarves they have there, quite at random. I then hope he gets on with the supermarket shopping so that his boyfriend has something to cook on Christmas Day.' That's exactly what she said."

There was a pause.

"You know I really don't think Father Christmas is gay," Sherlock said.

"Just get on with it and come home. I feel rubbish."

"OK. But I am going to try to colour coordinate the scarf with her favourite purple dress. And I might buy her a broach to go with it. It is Mrs Hudson after all."

"OK. Buy something for Laura while you're there."

"What?"

"She wants a pair of gloves. She told me, she said 'John, I do hope Father Christmas buys me a pair of gloves…'"

"Sarcasm really doesn't suit you, you know," Sherlock said.

"Yeah it does. Now go away. You're hurting my throat."

He hung up and settled down to sleep some more.

oOo

An hour later and his phone rang again. He fought his way out of sleep and winced at the horrible pain the buzzing was causing in his head.

"Hello?" he whispered.

"John? John can you hear me?" Sherlock yelled.

"Yes I can… give me… Oh hell." John hung up, staggered to the bathroom and threw up. It wasn't a particularly bad or impressive display, and when he'd finished he sank down on the bathroom floor and leaned against the bath. He picked his phone up from floor and called Sherlock back.

"What happened? You hung up on me!" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, sorry. What did you want?"

"I wanted to tell you I don't like the look of this supermarket."

John stared at the wall for a moment.

"In what way?" he asked.

"It's too full of people. I mean really full! I mean, you know when I've complained that it's too full before? Well think of that and quadruple the number."

"So what?"

"So I don't think I should do the shopping."

John stared at the wall again, trying to think about what to say next. When words completely failed him, he hung up and concentrated on not sobbing.

Sherlock called him back and he answered with silence.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I thought about it, and it occurred to me that under the circumstances that might have been a particularly selfish thing to say."

John snorted and wiped his eyes.

"Good guess."

"It'll be fine. I'll get this done. I mean, what are a few hundred… shit."

"What?"

"Well the lines at the checkouts extend half way down the isles. I mean literally, I'm not exaggerating. But it doesn't matter! I've nothing else to do and it'll be fine!"

"Good. Thank you. And sorry for not getting it done before now."

"It's fine, and it's not your fault! Why are you all echoey."

"I'm in the bathroom."

"Why?"

"I threw up. It seemed better to do so in here."

"Oh. John, I really think I should come home now."

"No, no, I'm fine. I've just had too many painkillers and antibiotics and not enough food. Not to mention the fact that my swollen tonsils are resting on my gag reflex. It's a perfectly normal reaction."

"I'll come home and cook for you."

"Oh please don't."

"No, I'll cook nice food! Or I'll heat up some nice food that someone else has cooked. Just… I'm sorry."

"I'm fine, and we need the food for Christmas day, and the shops will only get worse. I've invited everyone now, and I'll need to give them something to eat."

"I'll call everyone and cancel."

"No! You can't! They're all looking forward to it."

"Well I'm reasonably certain that I can't cook a Christmas dinner."

"You don't have to. Just buy the food and I'll do it. I'll be better by then."

"OK. Well I'll be as quick as I can. John?"

"Mm?"

"I'm really sorry about the weekend."

"OK."

oOo

John woke up when the flat door banged shut. He looked at the clock and cursed. There was no way that Sherlock could have managed all the shopping in the half hour since they'd last spoken.

Sherlock came into the room now and sat down on the bed.

"Sherlock? The food?"

"No, don't worry about it, I've sorted everything out."

"How?"

"I called Mycroft. We discussed it, and decided that it was far better for us to go to Christmas at his place, so that he can arrange the cooking of dinner with all the trimmings."

"But Sherlock, Mrs Hudson…"

"Mrs Hudson will come with us in a cab, and Mycroft's going to send his car for Laura and Henry. It's all sorted. He'll arrange food. Well, he'll arrange food for Christmas day anyhow. Mrs Hudson's arranging food for me and you now. She wants to know why she wasn't told that you were ill immediately so she could look after you. She's making her chicken soup which you should be able to swallow."

"But Laura…"

"Laura sends her best wishes, and is coming round with a casserole tomorrow and will sort anything that needs sorting for you. She says she'll leave Henry with Mrs Hudson if you aren't up to him being around."

"But… but…"

"I bought ice-cream. It was all I bought in the end, and I was able to charm my way to the front of a queue, but there are four tubs of ice-cream in the freezer for you to have later. I tried to remember all I could about tonsillitis, but all I could remember was ice-cream. I called Mike too and he says that that's fine, and that you'll just get better in time and there wasn't any need to operate so that's good."

Sherlock toed off his shoes, wriggled to the other side of the bed and got in it. He pulled John over to him.

"So there you go," he said. "I told you I'd cope with everything."

"Well you didn't so much cope, as get everyone else to do stuff for you."

"Yes. That's how I cope. And you can consider it my Christmas present to you." He kissed him and John settled against him.

They both daydreamed silently for a while.

"But you have got me an actual Christmas present, haven't you?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling and frowned for a while...

**Sorry, I have suffered a crisis of confidence with this fic in general, so I'm trying to get back on track! There will be a Christmas special, of course!**

**Pip xxx**


	42. Christmas

**OK, I like to think, in my ridiculously self-satisfied way, that I've covered a fair amount of emotions in this fic that's supposed to be restricted to 'funny'. I make no apologies for the fact that this one can only be described as 'mushy' and 'twee in the extreme'.**

**This is a touch early for a Christmas Special, but I suspect you've all got loads on too, and I've got a fair amount to organise still. So here it is and here you are.**

**Merry Christmas!**

* * *

Christmas

"Are you absolutely sure you're feeling OK?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm fine! I'm absolutely fine."

"Because we can always go out for a walk another day if you're tired or in pain or anything of that ilk. And it's quite late, so if you need to go back home to bed at any point, you should just say."

"I'm fine, Sherlock! I've barely been out of bed for the past three days, and you're clearly giddy with excitement, so we'll just go. OK?"

"I can wait though! If you're still not well, I can wait, that's what I'm saying."

John smiled at him. Sherlock's body was virtually vibrating with anticipation. John hadn't seen him so wound up before. Not even when he was working on a case.

"I'm fine. I'm really fine. To be honest I need to get out for a bit. Now, where shall we go? Around the park?"

"No. We'll start at Southwark Cathedral, walk to Tower Bridge, then… well, let's see where the mood takes us, shall we?"

John laughed.

"I'm happy to follow the route that you've clearly mapped out for me!"

"No, no not at all! But we do have to start at Southwark Cathedral at eleven thirty."

"OK, well then we'd better get on with it."

Sherlock smiled at him hailed a cab. When it arrived he settled in it, stared out of the window and lightly gnawed on a loose thread on his gloves.

"Sherlock, are you OK?" John asked him.

"Hm? What? Me? I'm fine. I'm… I'm fine."

"Is there a case or something?"

"A case of what? Oh! You mean work! No, I am not working this evening. I promise you. This is… something else."

"What is this? Have you arranged for something to happen at Southwark Cathedral that's going to annoy me?"

"No." He frowned and looked out of the window again. "I don't think so anyway, but it's me, so it's always a possibility."

"Sherlock, what have you done?" John asked him.

Sherlock refused to speak for the rest of the journey.

They got out on Montague Close and John looked at the brightly lit cathedral. There seemed to be a lot of people still going through the doors and John puzzled over this for a moment.

"Sherlock," he said, when Sherlock had caught him up. "Are we here for Midnight Mass? Because if so, we'd better get a move on."

"No, we're not here for the mass."

"For the carols?"

"No. Just stand here for a moment while everyone goes in."

They stood just inside the gate and waited. Eventually, a nun closed the big wooden door. Sherlock took John's hand and led him closer to the building.

"You know, I think Southwark's one of the more overlooked London Cathedrals," John said.

"Yes. I know you like it."

"Of course, we've been here before!"

"Yes. This was where I took an iron bar to the head and you kept me still and steady until the ambulance came, and then took me to hospital, and then stayed with me so that I wasn't alone."

"Yes. On the Cooper case."

"Yes. Come on."

Sherlock steered him closer still and they both stood still as the first bars of 'Once in Royal David's City' filled the air.

"It's not the best choir in London," Sherlock said quietly. "But there's something very pure about it nonetheless."

He was staring at the door and John looked to see what had caught his attention. The door wasn't well lit, but he did notice a white envelope, about the same size as a playing card, which was stuck onto it. He looked closer and saw that it was addressed to Dr. John Watson.

He frowned and pulled it off, glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock had walked away a few paces and seemed deeply interested in some kind of shrubbery. John took the envelope to where there was a floodlight, and he opened it. He found inside a fairly stiff card, folded once. On the top, written in Sherlock's handwriting, clearly using the Mont Blanc pen that John had given to him on his last birthday, were the words:

_Dear John,_

John glanced at Sherlock again, but apparently the plant was _fascinating_. John stood in the light and flicked the card open with his thumb.

_I find it strange, and slightly painful that the two words I have already written have come to symbolise the parting of ways, the separation of the couple. If I want to write to you a note of instruction, or kindness, or even love, I inevitably start with the two words that people use now to mean 'goodbye'. _

_The problem is, your name is John, and you are extremely dear to me, and so I must take back those two words and claim them for my own. John, who is dear to me. Dear John. That is how I must start my letter._

That was it. John checked the back but there was nothing further. He checked the envelope again but there was nothing left in there.

"Did you run out of space?" He asked Sherlock.

"Yes. Sometimes I find that London is stupidly small. Come on, let's walk."

"OK."

John linked his arm through Sherlock's and they strolled back towards the river.

"Do you want to walk along the river-bank?" He asked Sherlock.

"Yes."

"Is this probably the strangest Christmas Present I'm ever going to get in my life?"

"I hope so."

John grinned and they walked silently from Southwark Cathedral to Tower Bridge. It loomed in front of them, lit up with pale blue lights.

John wondered about telling Sherlock that the Americans had known precisely which bridge they were getting when they'd purchased London Bridge, and of course they knew it wasn't this one, but he didn't. This was partly because Sherlock undoubtedly knew, and partly because he was enjoying the silence. He had the card in his left hand and he played with the corner of the envelope between forefinger and thumb.

The slowed up as they neared the bridge.

"This was where you fished me out of the river and didn't let me drown," Sherlock said. "I don't know precisely where, because my mind was otherwise occupied, but I remember opening my eyes just as we went under the bridge."

"It would have been about… there," John said pointing.

"I thought I must be close. Part of me is annoyed that I couldn't be precise, but then, it's quite hard to stick a card to a small area of water anyway, so it can't be helped."

John frowned at him, but he was looking up at the stars now. John looked to the ground and the wall, and finally to the bridge. Just away from the end, on one of the iron supports, was a small card. He had to lean out quite far to grab it, and Sherlock held onto him so that he could stretch.

"For future reference," John said, "it might be worth remembering that your arms are longer than mine."

He reached and got it and Sherlock pulled him back to safety, and they both giggled for a moment. John looked at the envelope in the same way as the first one, and he glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock immediately turned and walked away a few places. John stood under a streetlight and opened the envelope and read the front of the card.

_You are the cleverest person that I know._

John glanced at Sherlock, and flicked the card open.

_I'm including both me and my insufferable brother in that statement. We have abilities, it's true, we can see things, we can make connections, but it's all quite simple really when you follow the right method. You, however, have the ability to get to the heart of any problem within seconds. You have a sharpness to you, you can see, act, and resolve as if it is as natural to you as breathing. You understand that deeply complex and confusing item; the human heart. I yield to you._

John took a breath and looked at Sherlock again. Sherlock slowly turned, and looked at John. He seemed to have lost some of his height in the last few minutes.

John walked up to him.

"Thank you," he said.

He kissed Sherlock and linked his arm through his again. He put the two cards safely into his jacket pocket and rested his hand over them.

"Where next?" he asked.

"Well, where do you think?" Sherlock asked, looking at him eagerly.

John stood still for a moment and then looked at Sherlock.

"Why don't we cross the bridge, and head along to the Tower?" he asked.

Sherlock grinned broadly and John buzzed a little bit. Despite his protests, he had been slightly tired when he'd come out, but now he felt he could easily sprint across the bridge and up the hill to the tower. He didn't though. He stayed and walked sedately with Sherlock. He did notice a distinct spring in his step though, and he tried to keep it under control so as not to irritate Sherlock too much.

They got to the other side and John pulled away, striding towards the building, the two cards back in his left hand. There was a cobbled road running around the outside, with guard's huts dotted along it. Everything was empty and shut up by now.

"It doesn't matter," John said, marching ahead, "because you were definitely outside the castle when you fell. You landed here, breaking your collar bone, and you fell from the wall… here!"

He smiled and pulled another envelope from the wall. He turned around and Sherlock was smiling at him. John didn't go towards him though, he found a light spot, and eagerly opened the envelope.

_You are the kindest person that I know._

He flicked it open.

_I'm including Mrs Hudson in that. Though I have to admit that it's a fairly closely run thing there._

_You are astonishingly kind. Even when you're fighting off Grumpy McGrumpy-Pants, you still take the time to make me tea and to check I'm eating, when goodness knows I ought to be able to do some of this for myself. And whenever I desperately need your help, you always deliver. Even when you're complaining bitterly about my selfishness or stupidity or whining that you desperately need some sleep or want to get out of the rain, if I break my collar-bone, you'll hold it in place in a cab while I text Lestrade and refuse to go to hospital. It regularly astounds me that you haven't walked away from me in despair._

John looked at him and smiled.

"But, Sherlock, I…"

He stopped as Sherlock shook his head and walked towards him.

"Don't say anything about it yet. Please, I don't think I could bear it."

John frowned but nodded.

"Where next?" he asked. "I'm not sure my cleverness can follow the trail from here. Though to be fair, the list of places you've injured yourself is quite extensive."

Sherlock grinned.

"Yes, I have to admit when I got here I became baffled with possibilities. I thought about giving you clues to the next location, but then I thought it would probably be getting late. Oh! That reminds me!" He leant and kissed John. "Merry Christmas."

"What? Oh!" He looked at his wrist but remembered that he'd broken his watch last week and hadn't managed to replace it yet. "Sorry! Merry Christmas!" He kissed Sherlock too.

Sherlock very nearly didn't let go, but eventually John pulled away, laughing.

"That settles it," Sherlock said. "We're getting a cab to St Paul's."

John laughed.

"Where you fainted that time. Pneumonia."

"You got it wrong!"

"You didn't give me a chance!"

Sherlock pulled him towards Tower Hill. It was quiet at that part of London at that hour, so they started walking towards the cathedral. Eventually an empty cab passed them and they waved and ran and it pulled over.

"Merry Christmas!" John said to the cabbie.

"We're heading to Portland Place," Sherlock said. "I'll give you a fifty quid tip if you'll take us to a couple of stops along the way. First, St Paul's."

They were only in the cab ten minutes, and they sat quietly, hand in hand, both tense and excited. They pulled in when they got to the cathedral and they leapt out. John charged towards the statue of Queen Anne. As he predicted, she was holding onto a small white card. Sherlock boosted John up until he could scramble up the statue to grab it. He jumped down and fell against Sherlock, smiling. He took his card to a streetlight.

_You are the most courageous person I know._

He opened it.

_You're quite obviously courageous for so many reasons that are frankly dull. Yes, you're a soldier, and you put yourself in harm's way. Yes, you follow me into the depths of society without a second thought to your own safety. It would be silly for me to pretend that those things aren't important to me, they are, but they're obvious even to your passing acquaintances. The aspect of your courage that I value beyond all others is this: you don't let the possibility of your being wrong stop you from choosing a course of action. You don't sit around, pondering every possibility for hours. You decide, you act, you save lives. You behave as if this is routine. It's not; it's astonishing._

John looked up to Sherlock, but he found his vision was misty. Sherlock walked to him and took his hand.

"Remember Leon, on the plane?" he asked.

John nodded.

"To me, that was astonishing."

John shrugged.

"I'm just a doctor, Sherlock. It's what I'm trained to do."

"There's no 'just' about it. Yes, you have medical training, but what you don't seem to understand is that most people couldn't even get through training. They'd realise that at some point they might have to make those split second decisions and take absolute responsibility for the life that's suddenly in their hands. They'd fear the challenge. I couldn't do it; you can."

John sniffed and nodded.

"Sherlock, I'm beginning to feel strangely small."

Sherlock startled.

"Oh! That's not meant to happen! You're supposed to be feeling brilliant right now! Because you are!"

John laughed and wiped his eyes.

"No, you don't understand. It's just… I bought you gloves, Sherlock. You did all this and I bought you gloves."

"It doesn't matter; I like gloves. And I've bitten a hole in these ones."

"How did you…?"

"It's not important. Come on, next stop."

"Where's that?"

"Trafalgar Square."

They got back into the cab and headed off. John took all of the cards out of his pocket and looked at them in his hands. He suddenly felt overwhelmed and wanted to read them all again, but felt stupidly nervous of the idea, as if doing so would cause this all to end. He stacked them neatly together and put them in his inside pocket. He took Sherlock's hand again.

"You have bought me nicer gloves than we bought Laura, haven't you?" Sherlock asked.

John grinned.

They walked to the centre of the square, John leading Sherlock forward.

"I have to admit, Sherlock, I wouldn't have thought you'd want to remember this one. It wasn't exactly your finest moment."

"No."

"I mean, of all the unlikely places that you've vomited in the years I've known you, into the pool in the middle of Trafalgar Square in broad daylight might well be the most embarrassing."

"Yes."

"I mean, pretty much anywhere else would have been better."

"I wasn't thinking properly."

"No."

John picked up the small envelope from the side of the pool and opened it.

_You are the sexiest that person I know._

This caused him to raise his eyebrows for a while, and hesitate slightly before opening the card. He was a little concerned about what Sherlock might have written in it.

He glanced over at him, but Sherlock had walked some way off and was facing away.

_I have to admit, I haven't met all 7 billion people on the planet, but I have met, on estimate, several thousand. That is a lot of people, and I haven't been sexually attracted to any of them. Not one. Not the slightest stirring. Perhaps I have liked some, found others interesting, admired others, but none of them have moved me the way that you do. I have no earthly clue what it is about you that affects me this way, and, astonishingly, I find I'm comfortable with that. I just don't want it to stop. You intrigue me._

John read this one twice before putting it back in its little envelope. He tapped it on his hand, thinking about all that it said before he put it in his breast pocket with the others. He walked over to Sherlock and took his hand again.

"OK?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced at him.

"That day, when you were pretending to be a workman and you got hot so you took your t-shirt off, I couldn't take my eyes off you."

"Ah," John said.

"Yes."

"So that would be why you stood in the blazing sun for three hours until you got heat-stroke."

"Yes."

"Right. Because I didn't think you were actually that stupid."

"No. And while we're on the subject, the times that I watched you get undressed when you were drunk weren't quite as accidental as I might have led you to believe."

"No, I had worked that one out, Sherlock, but thank you."

"OK. Good."

"Where next?"

"Portland Place."

John frowned.

"I think my memory must be failing me because I don't remember you being ill or injured or anything there."

"No, I know. I just like Portland Place, and I want to walk to the park."

"OK."

They headed back to the cab and drove along Regent Street looking out at the shop windows and the decoration. They pulled into the side of the road just as it became Portland Place.

"Are you sure you're feeling OK?" Sherlock asked. "It's really late now and there's Christmas tomorrow."

"Yeah, but now Mycroft's doing it, I don't have to get up early to start peeling sprouts. Come on, if you want to walk up Portland Place, then that's what we'll do."

He got out the cab and Sherlock followed. The cabbie got a particularly generous Christmas tip and drove away.

The two of them walked along the road.

"Why is this road so special?" John asked.

"No particular reason. It's just the way to the park. Though if you wanted to cross through to Harley Street, you can have a look at the private practise that I considered buying for you."

"You thought about buying me a Harley Street practice?"

"Yes. But then I realised that you didn't want a private practise, and I didn't want you to have one either, so I abandoned that idea."

"This is definitely better."

"Oh, that wasn't for a present or anything. It was just a passing fancy."

"OK then. I've never thought of buying you a forensic lab or anything, just so you know. Is that…? That's Angelo!"

"Yes it is."

"Angelo? Why the hell are you out here at this time on Christmas Morning?"

"I thought you might want these." He handed across two grease-proof bags to them. "I suggested that mulled wine and mince pies might be more seasonal, but Sherlock insisted that hot sausage sandwiches would be what you wanted."

"I'm afraid Sherlock was right on this occasion, Angelo. Thank you! You should go home now though!"

"I'm going! Have a lovely Christmas, won't you! And enjoy the rest of your night too!"

He headed off and they watched him go.

"I wondered how you'd managed it all!" John said. "You haven't left my side for the past thirty-six hours!"

"Yes, I had help. Not just Angelo, but Lestrade put the ones on Southwark Cathedral, the Bridge and the Tower. Angelo did Trafalgar Square and Queen Anne. They don't know what's in them though. I threatened to never speak to them again if they even peeped. I trust them."

"Well I think it was wonderful, I honestly do. It was possibly the nicest thing that's ever happened to me, ever."

Sherlock frowned at him.

"It's not over yet."

They ate and walked up Portland Place, stuffing their empty bags into a bin along the way, and then walking hand in hand across the Outer Circle of Regent's Park. They headed left towards the boating lake, walking slower now, as if it was one of the evening strolls that they regularly took along this path. They got to their usual bench, the one that John propelled Sherlock to whenever he got bored or depressed or just a little bit more unusual, and John had worried about him. He was not surprised to see a small, white envelope stuck to it. He took it off, and sat down to read. Sherlock sat beside him but didn't interrupt him.

_You are the most romantic person that I know._

John frowned but opened it to read on.

_I'd always assumed that I didn't like romance, but that was because all I knew of it was flowers and chocolates and similar nonsense. Some time ago, I realised that I was looking at it all the wrong way. Those things might have their place, perhaps, for some people, but they are not for you and me._

_This is the bench that you bring me too whenever I'm sinking into a black mood. This is where we sit and you make me watch the people passing by, and we make up stories about them. When I'm too depressed to speak, you go first, teasing and testing me until I start picking you up on your observations and showing off until I like myself again. You make me laugh at you and then you make me laugh at me._

_This is what romance is. It's when you look into a person's soul, and you provide precisely what it is that they need. I didn't even believe I had a soul until I met you._

John stared at the card until the words went fuzzy and he sniffed loudly.

"Don't suppose you brought a handkerchief with you, did you?" he asked.

Sherlock looked through his pockets.

"No. I have pocket pull out map if that's any use."

"Not really." He wiped his face on his hand. "I'm going to get snot everywhere."

"You see, this is precisely the romantic side that I was talking about."

John giggled and Sherlock grinned.

"Shall we go home?" Sherlock asked.

"God yes."

They got up and walked quietly and quickly back to the house. As they approached the black door with the brass numbers, John spotted yet another card and grinned. Sherlock looked strangely young and nervous as John reached out and pulled it from the door.

"Now, I know I'm unobservant in comparison to some people, but I know for sure that wasn't there when we left."

"No. Mrs Hudson did the last two for me."

John smiled and pulled out the last card.

_I love you._

He smiled again and flicked it open.

_Will you marry me?_

He gasped and staggered back three paces, only stopping when Sherlock put his hand out to prevent him falling into the road.

John stood there blinking, looking between Sherlock and the card and back again.

"Well?" Sherlock said eventually.

"No!"

Sherlock's face fell instantly.

"No, I mean, Sherlock!" John said. "This was all amazing, and I love you, and I absolutely don't want to leave you, but you don't have to marry me! You don't like marriage! You don't like weddings, which you think are silly and pointless and a waste of money, and you don't like the legal aspect of it which you think is nobody's business, and you don't like the whole marriage thing that comes afterwards! I love you, I do, but I'm saying you don't have to marry me just because you forgot to buy me a Christmas present! It's fine, it's really fine! This was all amazing!"

Sherlock breathed hard for a moment and swallowed a few times. John was surprised to see that his eyes were swimming.

"John can I…" he choked and cleared his throat and started again. "John, the thing is, I didn't… I didn't like any of it before. I didn't care for kindness and I thought courage was overrated and often stupid, and romance was foolish, and sex was just a useful thing but ultimately pointless unless you were aiming to procreate. But, but… but I was wrong! And now I'm wondering, what if I'm wrong about marriage too! What if it is all pointless words and silly papers unless you're actually doing it with the right person and, and, and…" he stopped to take a couple of deep breaths and walked over to put is hands on John's arms. "John! I bought you a Christmas Present! I got you a watch because yours was broken! It's a Patek Philippe and it's under the Christmas tree but I hid it at the back. This… this…" he gestured with his hand. "This isn't a Christmas present. This is a proposal. And I mean it and I've thought about it for longer than just this week." He stopped again and John stared at him. "So what I need to know is, is 'no' your final answer."

John stared, standing completely still with wide eyes, unable to stop looking at Sherlock.

"No," he said very quietly.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and then shuffled from foot to foot and put his hands together at him.

"OK, sorry, I'm confused. Was that no the same no for the first question, or that time, were you saying that no isn't your final answer?"

John smiled very faintly.

"No," he said again.

"John, seriously, I need to know. Though I'm beginning to want to retract all questions I've ever asked you. OK, here's one. Whatever you say next will be the answer to this question: Is 'no' your final answer to my proposal?"

John smiled again.

"No."

"Oh! Marvellous! Oh that's brilliant! Oh it's Christmas! And it actually is Christmas! Oh marvellous!" Sherlock paced back and forth across the pavement, running his hands through his hair. John watched and smiled.

Sherlock suddenly looked serious and came back to John.

"OK, just to clarify though, are you in fact saying 'yes'? To the proposal I mean. I just want to be absolutely sure."

John looked at him for a while, and then he looked up at the awning for Speedy's, and then to the windows of their living room and to the front door and then back to Sherlock.

He nodded.

"Yes."

_Fin._

* * *

**Just to say, I have had the most marvellous time writing this one. It's been amazing, the feedback has been extraordinary, not least because when I wrote chapter one in a fit of excitement having finished my first novel, it honestly was meant to be a one-shot. So thank you all for actually giving me a further three months of delight and fun! I am setting it to complete now, and hope to come back after Season Two with something new and different.**

**I hope my UK readers have the best New Year's Day imaginable (and I have quite a vivid imagination) and I hope that the rest of you get to have an equally wonderful day some time soon.**

**Once again, thanks for the prompts, the feedback, the reading and the love. It has been awesome. Thank you.**

**Pip xxx**


	43. Wedding Day

**Hello! I have to admit, I have been a bad and neglectful fanfic writer of late. On the other hand, I have been a focussed and hard-working original fic writer, and it is with an enormous amount of pride and pleasure that I can announce that Gren Peppard and the Lost Boy, by Pip Mulgrue, will be available for sale via Amazon Kindle store on Monday 30****th**** April, 06:00 British Summer Time (I don't think sales are restricted to the UK), and what's more, it's available from as a paperback at this very moment! The Kindle version is significantly cheaper due to not having to pay the printing costs and postage.**

**I owe a massive amount of gratitude to my readers here, and particularly my reviewers for helping me to understand what an enormous amount of pleasure I could get from writing.**

**There's not an awful lot I can give in repayment for that, apart from, of course, a wedding. I hope that you enjoy this, and if you buy Gren Peppard, I really hope you enjoy that too.**

* * *

Wedding Day

John woke up early and listened to Sherlock gently snoring. He felt a wave of butterflies fluttering around his stomach, and he smiled and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his face a bit and felt another wave of butterflies.

His anxiety about the wedding was unexpected. At the beginning of the engagement he had simply assumed that Sherlock and he would be the sort of couple who would have a long-term engagement. He thought it would probably last for forty years or so, but then, when walking past a registry office, they'd just nip inside and get the job done.

He hadn't formed this opinion through any sort of doubt or reluctance that he was aware of, but simply because he couldn't really get his head around the idea of either of them planning a wedding. He was definitely the organiser of the couple, and he'd have no earthly clue where to start with this sort of thing.

He was surprised, therefore, on Boxing Day, when Sherlock simply circumvented the problem by enlisting Mrs Hudson's help in respect of all the actual work.

After joyful squeals and tears over the matter of John accepting, she had disappeared and left them alone. She had said nothing more about it until New Year's Day, when she sat both of them down at the kitchen table, took out a large ring-binder and surrounded them with menus, brochures for country houses and other venues, and cut-outs from fashion magazines, lists of approved readings, and she told them all of their options. They had stared at her blankly and asked for coffee.

After about four hours, she was finally satisfied that neither one of them had the slightest opinion about what should happen beyond 'it should happen,' and she bustled away to make all of the arrangements.

John had allowed all of this to happen.

Sherlock had made some mild complaints, which Mrs Hudson had either compromised on, or steamrollered over.

She'd taken both of them individually to Mycroft's tailor and helped them select fabrics and cuts for suits, primarily by telling them what they would have. It was down to her that they were both had harmonizing, but different, morning suits, and that when they wore them, each man's colouring and physique was shown to its best advantage, while somehow showing them off to be a couple.

It was down to Sherlock that the suits were both in 221B, side-by-side in matching suit-cases, so that rather than hidden and separate. He had insisted that they could dress together and without any help.

It was down to Mrs Hudson that they had invited the guests in plenty of time, on good-quality, elegantly understated invitations. It was down to Sherlock that the invitees numbered 25 carefully selected people, rather than the 150 names that Mrs Hudson had pretty much plucked from the sky.

It was down to Sherlock that they were waking up together, side by side, rather than in separate bedrooms on separate floors. It was because of Mrs Hudson that they had the fun of going to bed dutifully and separately, nicely early, and then had had the further fun texting each other, until John had finally heard Sherlock's footfalls on the stairs and they'd crept, giggling like school-children, back downstairs to their usual room.

John was surprisingly grateful that he'd had to put almost no work in to this event at all, though he did find he was somewhat thrown by the fact that a wedding was about to happen. Today. He couldn't help but think that if he'd have wanted to put the brakes on, just slightly, just to steady the pace a bit, he should probably have said something on New Year's Day. Now it was May, and it was a long way past too late.

He rubbed his face, wondering if all prospective grooms felt as nervous as he was feeling now.

He looked at Sherlock who was soundly asleep, and he spent a moment enjoying Sherlock's relaxed face. He suspected that when the detective was conscious, those eyebrows would be knitted into a frown while he stomped and shouted around the house, protesting to all and sundry that he was most definitely _not_ nervous, and who the hell had moved his cufflinks for the stupid, button-less shirt anyway!

John felt his stomach flip again, and he decided that he shouldn't have to suffer all of this anxiety alone.

He flicked Sherlock on the forehead. Sherlock stirred, writhed and fell limp again.

John flicked him again, and Sherlock swiped at his forehead but didn't wake up.

John went to flick him again, and Sherlock's hand shot out and grasped his wrist before he could make contact. He opened his eyes.

"Have you quite finished?" he asked.

John blushed and grinned.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning."

Sherlock's arm snaked over John's chest, and he closed his eyes again.

"We should get up," John said.

"Later." Sherlock nestled and sighed.

"You do remember that we're getting married today, don't you?" John asked.

"Mm. We have time."

"Mrs Hudson's coming," John whispered.

Sherlock grinned but didn't otherwise move.

There was a knock on the door.

"Sherlock!" she called. "Time to get up, love!"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he called.

"Jolly good! I'll wake John too."

Sherlock quietly sniggered, and John grinned and shook his head.

There was the slightest of pauses, and then Mrs Hudson knocked again.

"John! Time to get up now!"

Sherlock giggled again.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John called.

"You boys will be the death of me!" she called. "I'll go and make breakfast. You'll need something to sustain you."

John groaned.

"Just toast for me, Mrs Hudson!"

He heard her walk away, muttering, and he turned to look at Sherlock again. He found that he was being frowned at.

"Are you really nervous?" Sherlock asked.

"Well yeah, a bit. I mean, I'm fine, but nervous."

"More or less nervous than when you left for Afghanistan?"

"I'm _fine._"

"No, you're nervous." Sherlock frowned for a moment and took John's hand. "John, I need to know, are you really, _really_, sure about this?"

John's stomach turned over, and he had to take a moment to steady himself.

"Yes, I am really, really sure. I promise."

Sherlock's frown didn't disappear.

"It's just…" he started.

"What is it?" John asked, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

Sherlock paused and looked at him for a moment, and then he sighed.

"It's just you haven't been particularly interested. I get the impression that you would prefer it if all of this wasn't happening."

John's eyes widened and he shook his head, firmly.

"No! No, not at all! It's not that I haven't been interested! I've just been incompetent! Really, if it wasn't for Mrs Hudson I'd be utterly lost!" He stared at the ceiling and sighed. "The nervousness _today _is for in case I fluff my lines, or trip over the carpet and look like a prized prat or something. It's not about marriage, and it's most definitely not about you." He looked at Sherlock. "I'm really happy about both the marriage, and you, OK? It's just the today bit."

Sherlock's face slowly cleared and he nodded.

"OK. I just needed to be sure."

"Well, you can be sure."

Sherlock nodded again, and with a rush of energy he leapt from the bed.

"Good. Let's get breakfast," he said.

John swallowed and nodded.

"Mm. Let's see if my stomach will start behaving if I put some food into it."

Sherlock went into the bathroom, and John waited for a minute and then got up too, and he went out to where Mrs Hudson was cooking in their kitchen.

The smell of frying bacon and sausages invaded his senses and he swallowed hard. He walked quickly into the living room. He opened one of the windows and spent a moment breathing in the fresh, June air.

He felt better for it, so he sat down at the table and looked out of the window at all the people going about their business.

Mrs Hudson bustled over with his tea and toast.

"Aw, bless you, John. Don't you worry; it'll all be lovely!"

She rubbed the top of his back, and he wished that she'd stop.

"I'm not nervous, Mrs Hudson." He gave her a grim smile.

"No, he's not nervous at all!" Sherlock said, coming in to join them. "He'll be fine as long as no carpet tiles suddenly rear up to attack him."

Mrs Hudson shook her head and went back to the kitchen.

"I'm fine!" John said. "Look! I'm even eating!"

He grabbed a slice of his toast and took a somewhat ambitious mouthful. The second it hit his mouth he realised it had been an awful mistake, but Sherlock was watching him, so he chewed manfully and swallowed.

It was like swallowing a stone.

He grabbed his tea and sipped at it, until Mrs Hudson came in with a plate laden with the sausages and bacon, along with mushrooms, tomatoes and a fried egg. John gave it one look and leaned towards the window to breathe again.

"You'll be fine," Sherlock said. "Most of it's just; 'repeat after me…'"

"I _know!_ I'm _fine._" John didn't move from the window. He took a deep breath.

"I've got the words all printed out somewhere," Mrs Hudson said. "I thought I would in case you wanted to practise."

"Oh that's a good idea," Sherlock said, and Mrs. Hudson bustled away and started leafing through her ring-binder.

John didn't bother telling them how fine he was. He breathed the morning air and listened to the boys from Speedy's as they opened up and moved the tables outside.

"Here you are," Mrs Hudson said, and she gave Sherlock a piece of paper. He popped a piece of sausage in his mouth and chewed while reading.

John's mouth watered in a deeply unpleasant way.

"It's all easy, John," Sherlock said. "It's two sentences. Easy."

"I'm _fine._" John said. He looked mournfully through the window again.

"Let's have a practice, shall we?" Mrs Hudson said. "I'll be the minister." She glanced at John. "Perhaps Sherlock should go first. Repeat after me, Sherlock, '"I do solemnly declare…"

"I do solemnly declare."

"…that I know not of any lawful impediment…"

"That I know not of any lawful impediment."

"…why I, Sherlock Holmes,

"Why I, Sherlock Holmes."

"…may not be joined in matrimony to John Hamish Watson."

Sherlock pointed at her with his knife.

"What she said. See? Easy!"

John stared. He turned green and swayed slightly.

"Your turn John," Mrs Hudson said. "I do solemnly declare…"

John stared. He swallowed a couple of times and took a deep breath.

"I do solemnly declare...," he mumbled.

"…That I know not of any lawful impediment…"

John grimaced.

"That I know not of any lawful impediment," he muttered.

"…why I, John, Hamish Watson…"

"Er… er… John Watson?"

"…may not be joined in matrimony to Sherlock Holmes."

John opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. His stomach spun like a washing machine.

"Come on," Sherlock said through a mouthful of meat and egg. "May not be joined in matrimony…"

John cursed and pushed passed Mrs Hudson as he darted to the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him, gagged, panicked, and accepted the sweet, sweet relief of vomiting everything he'd consumed in the last three days into the loo. He was surprised by the violence of the attack.

When he was able to pause for breath he became aware of somebody watching him, and he glanced into the mirror above the sink.

"Go away, Sherlock," he said. "I really don't need an audience."

"John, are you…"

Sherlock broke off, as John was sick again. And then again, and again. After a minute, Sherlock slunk back out of the room.

A good ten minutes later, John returned to the living room. He filled a glass full of water and took a moment to be grateful that Mrs Hudson had removed all the signs of breakfast from the flat.

He took his water to his armchair and sat down, and he wished he wasn't shaking quite so obviously.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, watching him, with an intense look on his face. His fingers were steepled, and there was a faint line down the middle of his forehead. His eyebrows were down, and his steely eyes looked out from under them.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No. Not really," John said. He sipped at his water.

"John, are you certain that this isn't nerves? This looks like nerves. And if it is that you're this nervous about the prospect, don't you think that…"

"No!" John cut him off. "Point one, I'm not nervous. It's like I said earlier. I want to be married to you."

"Because you're stubborn?"

John shook his head.

"Point two, we know how fear gets me. If I were terrified to the point that normal people throw up, my legs would stop working. They're absolutely fine! I wouldn't throw up until they started working again. Point three, I know how I feel, and I feel pretty damned rough. I'm pretty certain that I've gone and got a stomach bug." He looked at Sherlock. "I'm really sorry!" His eyes watered slightly, and he felt ridiculous.

"OK," Sherlock said. "Fine, so it's a stomach bug. Can you just rise above it?"

John gave him a look.

"All I'm saying is that you might try."

John shot off back to the bathroom for a few minutes.

When he was well enough to return to the living room, he curled up on the armchair and looked Sherlock.

"I think I'm going to die!" he said.

Sherlock nodded at him. He was beginning to look very concerned, but he forced a smile.

"Well, if you do, could you possibly wait for seven hours or so? Then all your stuff is automatically mine."

John snorted.

"You want my clothes and my laptop? Feel free."

"I think we both know that I'm only marrying you for your gun."

John sniggered, and Sherlock started to look a little more relaxed. It was only for a moment though, as John's his face fell and he groaned.

"This is a bit not good, Sherlock," he said. "Although you might be pleased to hear that your diagnosis is now a bit right. I'm now very nervous about standing at the front of the room and hurling over one of the best men."

"Well yours is a doctor and mine is Mycroft, so you should feel free. Aim for Mycroft."

Sherlock grinned optimistically, and John smiled wanly. He closed his eyes.

"Why Mycroft, anyway?" he asked. "Why didn't you ask Greg?"

"Because Mrs Hudson said that it was what brothers do, and because Lestrade would have insisted on a stag party."

"Huh."

John sat up suddenly, and Sherlock scooted back a bit, fearing another tide.

"Mike!" John said.

"What?"

"Mike! I need to call Mike!"

Sherlock gave him a nervous look.

"Do you want to postpone?"

"Nope, I want Mike to come around and inject me with a really, really strong anti-emetic."

Sherlock frowned.

"You've never let me have them before! You tell me that the quickest way to get better is to let the bug expel itself!"

"Well, if you were unable to stop throwing up on your wedding day, then I'd let you have some. Give me my phone… actually, you phone Mike, I'm going to puke." He darted off.

oOo

Two hours later, they were sitting side by side in the back of a limousine, which neither of them could remember hiring. Mike and Mrs Hudson had left just before them in a normal black cab. Just before John got into the car, Mike had stuffed a couple of airline sick bags into his pocket.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"Fine," John answered. He looked at Sherlock. "OK, not exactly fine. My stomach is aching rather unpleasantly, and I generally feel like crap, but I don't think I'm going to be sick, so we're good to go. Oh, and the nerves have gone, so that's something."

"Good then."

"Are you feeling OK?"

Sherlock glanced at him.

"Me? Yes, I'm fine." He smiled a strange smile. John would have said 'a shy smile' if Sherlock did 'shy'.

"I think I'm a bit nervous," Sherlock said. He looked strangely delighted by the concept. "I think now I understand why you were nervous."

"I wasn't nervous."

John gave Sherlock a pale smile and took his hand. He frowned at it and held it up.

"Sherlock? What the hell is this?" he asked.

At some point in the morning, Sherlock had drawn a face and a tuxedo on Franken-finger, complete with a tiny bow-tie.

"I just thought he should be properly dressed for the occasion."

John giggled and grinned. He kissed the appropriately attired finger and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Are you sure you're OK?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm. Just wiped out."

They arrived at the registry office and saw Mike and Mycroft waiting in the doorway for them. Mike looked comfortable, cheerful and relaxed, and Mycroft looked as though he'd trodden in something unpleasant some time ago and couldn't quite shake off the smell.

The chauffeur opened the door for them and they piled out, both looking slightly dishevelled and distant. Sherlock immediately took John's hand again.

"How you bearing up?" Mike asked John. He quickly straightened John's cravat and collar.

"I'm fine, thank you," John said. "Really thank you! You're a life-saver."

"Good-o! I'll see you in there. And watch it at the reception, won't you. That jab won't last forever."

John nodded, and Mike walked off.

"Top-hat?" Mycroft said to Sherlock. He tried to straighten Sherlock's cravat and Sherlock swiped his hand away.

"Mrs Hudson insisted. Look, if your next statement is any disparaging comment about my suit, the car, the choice of venue, my choice of partner, or, in fact, about _anything, _just save it, OK?"

Mycroft took a moment and then nodded.

"It's nice to see you looking so happy," he said, and he smiled that particular smile that made him look slightly reptilian.

"Let's go in," John said, feeling quite light headed.

They went up to the main reception room, paused for a moment as Mycroft walked to the front and spoke with the registrar, and then, as the music started, they walked in.

John and Sherlock stood in front of twenty-five carefully selected friends and they both sniggered for a moment.

They calmed down.

They sniggered again.

The registrar smiled happily at them, and they properly calmed down. They were welcomed warmly and instructed to sit, and they did so without letting go of each other. Lestrade stumbled through a reading, getting redder and redder with each fluffed word.

They were asked to stand, and the registrar turned to John.

The following words are the legal contract that will bind you to Mr Sherlock Holmes, and will be witnessed by all the people in this room. Are you happy with all of that?"

John smiled.

"Oh, yes."

The registrar calmly and clearly ran through the words of the official promise, and John repeated them clearly and confidently. After 'I solemnly declare…' he relaxed into it and enjoyed it all.

When he had finished, he slipped the custom made ring onto Sherlock's finger.

Sherlock's finger was cold, and it was shaking.

John frowned and looked up at him. Sherlock was pale and starting to sweat.

"Are you OK?" John whispered.

Sherlock nodded.

"Are you sure you're just nervous?" John whispered.

Sherlock nodded again. He smiled.

"I'm fine," he said, before shutting his mouth firmly again.

They looked back to the registrar, who continued with Sherlock's lawful declaration.

He rushed through it, and John relaxed and smiled again. Sherlock looked extremely relieved and he breathed deeply.

They started on his vow.

"I call upon these persons here present," the registrar said.

Sherlock stared at her.

"I call upon these persons here present," she said again.

Sherlock repeated it in a voice that was just louder than a whisper.

"… to witness that I, Sherlock Holmes, do take thee, John Hamish Watson to be my lawful wedded husband," the registrar said.

Sherlock opened his mouth. He closed it again.

Mrs Hudson wiped away a tear.

John looked at Sherlock. His mouth was clamped shut, his lips were pale, and, all of a sudden, there was a tell tale twitching just behind his left jaw.

Twenty-five carefully selected friends watched as Dr John Watson let go of his very nearly almost husband's hand and yelled; 'Quick! Run!"

Sherlock fled.

John watched him go feeling a world of pity, mostly for Sherlock, and then he turned to the registrar who was watching them with a look of utmost confusion.

"Sorry," John said. "He'll be back."

They waited in an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Slowly and surely, there rose the sound of intrigued whispering.

"Does his best man want to…?" the registrar suggested.

John looked at Mycroft.

"No, definitely not," he said. "Give me a minute. I'll also be back. Promise."

John left the room and crossed the corridor to the Gents toilet. He found Sherlock standing at a basin. His morning coat was on the window-sill, and his top hat was resting on it. He was still wearing his shirt, but he had removed his cravat and waistcoat and was running the former under the tap. He glanced up as John came in. He was blinking furiously and looked mortified.

"Are you OK?" John asked.

"No."

"But do you feel better?"

"Not really, no." Sherlock cursed and leapt into the stall again.

John picked up the cravat and started wringing some of the water out of it. He listened to Sherlock's misery.

Eventually the toilet was flushed and Sherlock reappeared.

"John? What are we going to do?" he asked.

"I'll go and find you some water."

"That won't help! Does Mike have any more of that stuff? The stuff he injected into you? I can't leave here yet! I feel awful, and we have to be married today! Now! Mrs Hudson said they won't let us run late! She said it seven times so it must be true!"

Sherlock swiped two actual tears away. Just the two, but John ached for him nonetheless.

"It's OK, just calm down a bit," John said. "Just…" he thought for a moment. "Just wait here, and I'll see what we can do."

Sherlock sniffed and nodded.

John left him alone toilets and went back into the room. The sound of intrigued and concerned whimpering was quite a lot louder now. He blushed as he walked to the front of the room.

Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Mike all closed in as he headed to the registrar.

"We've run into a snag," he said. "Mr Holmes has been taken unwell."

"Is it the same as with you, John?" Mike asked.

"Yes. I don't suppose you brought a second syringe?"

"No. Sorry, I dosed you high this morning, and I'm already concerned that you won't shit for a week." Mike remembered his location and looked horrified. "Oh! God, I'm sorry!"

He blushed, and John recognised that he would be of no further help to them.

"Where is he now?" the registrar asked.

"In the Men's room," John said. "He's quite reluctant to leave."

"What about the bags in your pocket," Mrs Hudson asked.

"It's Sherlock, Mrs H. We can't ask him to vomit into a paper bag in front of 25 people! Not on his wedding day!"

"A thought occurs," Mycroft said. He dialled his phone. "Anthea darling?... Yes it's going _very_ well. Now I need a favour…. Right, the Gentleman's toilet on the ground floor of Westminster Register Office needs to be certified for weddings…. Yes, on the ground floor. It needs to happen in the next three minutes…. Marvellous, thank you so much. Send the confirmation through to the reception desk and instruct them to print it and bring it to the Churchill room."

Mycroft hung up and smiled.

"There we are now," he said. "That's all sorted."

"They can't get married in a _toilet._" Mrs Hudson said.

"Mrs Hudson, if it's been between a toilet or nothing, I'll take the toilet," John said.

He suddenly realised he wasn't nervous at all anymore, and that he was desperately eager for the event to take place, and a flood of relief wash over him. He knew now, that he really _was _sure.

The door at the back of the hall opened and an administrator ran in, holding a piece of paper. She blushed and slowed down as she saw everyone looking at her.

"Mrs Phillips, this has come for you. I wouldn't interrupt but…"

"It's fine, we were expecting it." Mrs Phillips took the letter and read it through. "Well, this certainly seems to be in order!" She checked her watch. "We haven't got much time. Mrs Hudson, are you still OK to witness?"

"I wouldn't miss it. They could hold it in a sewer and I wouldn't miss it."

"And Gregory Lestrade?" Mrs Phillips looked up. "Er Gregory Lestrade?" she called.

Lestrade raised his hand. He stood up and came towards them.

"Everything OK?" he asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Everything's fine, but we're switching locations," John said.

"Oh God! He hasn't taken a case, has he?"

"No, he hasn't. Come on." John smiled at the rest of the people there. "Er, sorry, ladies and Gentleman. I'm afraid we've had to unexpectedly change venue, and we really can't fit you all in. If you could just wait here for the time being? Oh, I know! Molly can lead you all in song for a few minutes! Molly?"

Molly raised her hand and then stood up and blushed.

"Er…" she said.

John nodded, gave her a wide smile, and he led the wedding party out. He hesitated outside the toilet door.

"Give me a second, would you?" he said to the others.

He nipped inside. Sherlock was sitting on the floor beneath the window. His knees were drawn up, and he was holding his head in his hands.

"Sherlock?" John said.

Sherlock looked up at him. He'd quite clearly been crying.

"Are you OK to stand up?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't leave, John, I feel awful! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Nope, I'm not having any of it. If you're still interested, you are going to get married today." John frowned. "To me, ideally. Now can you stand up? Just stand, you don't have to go anywhere."

Sherlock slowly stood up.

"Good," John said. "Now wash your face a bit, and I'll let the others in."

Sherlock frowned, but obeyed. John opened the door and gestured to the others. He turned around, removed his hat, jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, and he placed them on the windowsill with Sherlock's.

"There! We match again now!"

The others shuffled in and found spaces to stand where they could. Mike and Mycroft had joined them, despite being superfluous to current requirements.

The registrar smiled.

"Right, now I'm afraid we have to start again because of the change of rooms, but I'll go fast, OK?"

"OK," John said.

Sherlock nodded.

"OK, then Doctor Watson, please repeat these words…"

She ran through John's declaration and vow. John rattled through both of them them, feeling an old hand at this by now.

Sherlock took off his ring so that John could put it back on him.

The registrar smiled at Sherlock.

"Are you ready?"

"I'm as ready as I've ever been to make a marriage vow in a toilet."

"Good, that'll do."

She rushed through Sherlock's declaration and vow.

He repeated them masterfully.

"Now, do you have a ring for John?"

Sherlock's face fell and his eyes widened,

"Don't worry," Mycroft said. "I've got it!"

"That's not the problem," John said. "Of you go, husband."

Sherlock dashed into the stall again and the sound of painful retching and vomiting filled the room.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, Lestrade frowned, Mike nodded sympathetically, and Mrs Hudson wiped her eyes. The registrar blushed and looked away, and John Watson Holmes smiled. He felt very married, ring or no ring. He even followed Sherlock into the stall to rub his back for a bit, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

After a moment, they emerged once more, with Sherlock wiping his mouth on his hand, shaking slightly. He looked at John with a deep light in his eyes, and held his hand out for the ring. Mycroft dropped it onto his palm, trying desperately not to get too close to him.

Sherlock pushed the ring onto John's finger and smiled.

"Marvellous," Mrs Phillips said. "Now's the time for the kiss."

John looked at Sherlock, half dressed, pale, shaking, and with a thin film of sweat across his face. Sherlock sniffed.

"I'd really rather not," John said.

"Well, it's pretty much optional these days," Mrs Phillips said. "I'm sure you'll get round to it at some point! We do have to sign the register though. Shall I go and get it? We can probably prop it on the sinks if we're careful."

"I think I'm OK to leave now," Sherlock said.

John frowned at him.

"Are you sure? Don't push yourself, will you."

"I'm feeling much better," Sherlock said. "Perhaps I just needed to be married to you?"

John smiled.

"Well if I'd have known that a marriage with me would protect and cure you, perhaps I would have gone through it ago." He risked the kiss. It was quite high on Sherlock's cheekbone, but the thought was there. He turned to the registrar. "Give us a minute to clean up, and we'll come back in."

Five minutes later they stood hand in hand outside the Churchill room again, just out of view of the room.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" John asked.

"Mm. I think that's my lot though. Would you mind desperately if we were to miss the reception? I need a hot bath and a bed."

John slumped. "No, not in the slightest. To be entirely honest with you, I'm desperate for bed and a safety bucket myself." He rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand. "Let's just get this done and go home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I always thought that nipping in and just getting the job done was the way that we should do it. I'm glad that Mrs Hudson is having her party, but let's go home now. She can bring us a piece of cake…" he wavered and took a deep breath. "Maybe in six months time."

Sherlock smiled at him and led him into the room.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the registrar said. "Let's all welcome Mr John and Mr Sherlock Watson Holmes!"

Twenty-five carefully selected friends stood up to cheer and applaud.

* * *

**Now this one really is done! Thanks very much to all of you, and now the book is published (well, pretty much, it's out of my hands now at any rate), there should be time for more regular updates here again.**

**Pip xxx**


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